When the Light is Failing, Temptation Takes You
by doranobaka
Summary: If Graves had been honest with himself, he would have recognized it for what it was: a foregone conclusion. [Vampire!Original Graves AU]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I had a craving for a very specific brand of vampire!Original Graves, and I could not find it. So I decided to be the change I wanted to see. (You'd think after spending as much time as I have on my original vampire fiction that I'd be sick of it but eggs and bacon, you're mistaken!)

This started out as just a self-indulgent little thing fluffy thing that accidentally grew a plot. All of the vampire lore is just recycled from my original fiction because that's what I've been neck-deep in for the past while and I like it. :P

Title taken from the song "Salvation" by Editors, which is frankly the most Gradence song I've ever heard.

 _Warnings for depictions of PTSD and minor OC death._

* * *

If Graves had been honest with himself, he would have recognized it for what it was: a foregone conclusion. How he could have ever thought otherwise was a bit of a mystery, though it hardly mattered now. All his self control had been undone in an instant by the flash of pale skin mostly hidden by a high collar, by the hitch of breath, by the shy insistence: _it's all right, Mister Graves._ Gods take him, how could he resist that?

He should have resisted. The boy was his ward (not a child). He had little working knowledge of the world of magic, let alone monsters (But weren't they both monsters? Was that not why they had been given into each other's care?). He was nearly eighty years Graves's junior, and a mortal besides (but not quite human). And, above all else, Graves had sworn to keep him _safe._

Even this multitude of reasons could not stay Graves's hunger. Not when it had been ages since his last feeding. Not when he could hear the rabbit-fast pulse that thrummed just beneath Credence's skin. Not when faced with those dark, trusting eyes.

Already, Credence's fingers were working at the top few buttons of his shirt. Graves caught them up in his own hands, tugged them away, and chastely pressed his lips to Credence's fingertips. The jolt of his living spark—warm and smoky and dark—played across Graves's skin where they touched.

"You don't have to do this, Credence," he said. "You aren't responsible for my well-being. I am the one who is responsible for you. You owe me nothing." He meant every word, but a tiny and vicious part of him keened at the idea of coming so close but not being able to _taste._ ( _Don't think about it._ )

Credence pulled his hands from Graves's grasp, and for a terrifying moment, Graves felt like the world had fallen out from under him. He closed his eyes, tried to steel himself against the idea of finding a stranger to feed from, but he felt the barest brush of warmth against his shoulders. He opened his eyes to see Credence slip both arms around his neck and lean forward until their foreheads touched.

Just that point of contact alone was enough to set every nerve in his body ablaze with hunger. He felt Credence's heartbeat singing through him almost as if it were his own. When Credence spoke, his voice was so soft that Graves only heard it by virtue of his heightened senses. "I want to. For you, I mean. Please. Let me."

He could nearly taste the anxiety underneath the words, but there was a hesitant kind of hope to them, too. Gods. Graves was a fool who couldn't deny this boy (this young man, this monster) anything.

"This will be easier if we're sitting," Graves said. His voice came out steady, somehow, even as his entire being vibrated with anticipation. "Here." He laid his hands on Credence's hips and guided them both to sit on the rug near his hearth. At Credence's quizzical expression, Graves just shook his head. "Some people lose their balance. I'd rather not risk you falling and hurting yourself."

The surge of Credence's anxiety was almost electric, but the boy nodded and arranged his legs underneath himself so that he knelt next to Graves. "All right."

They stayed like that for a moment, frozen on the precipice of… something that Graves was not sure he wanted to examine more closely. Not now. Not with Credence right there, waiting.

Before Graves had stopped him, Credence had managed to undo his collar, leaving a hint of his throat bare. Gods above, he should just push one of Credence's sleeves up, should just take only the barest bit of blood from the wrist, from the elbow. Somewhere less intimate ( _don't think_ ). But he could feel the weight of Credence's mounting anxiety, could see the way his throat moved when he started to ask, "Mister Graves?"

"You're doing just fine," Graves murmured. He leaned forward until they were nearly nose-to-nose and worked the top buttons of Credence's shirt open. He could feel the fine trembling, couldn't keep himself from from tugging the boy closer and whispering soothing noises. "It's all right, I've got you, I've got you."

Credence nodded again, though Graves had not asked a question. He tilted his head to one side, hooked a finger in his collar to pull it out of the way. Left the flesh of his neck exposed.

Graves found himself absently murmuring things, "I'm so grateful, I won't let anything happen to you, I won't hurt you, I swear." By the final words, his lips were brushing Credence's skin. "Just hold on to me. I've got you."

He felt Credence wrap his arms around him, felt the tremor cease as Credence steeled himself. Graves spared a moment to breathe "oh, my boy" before letting his fangs slide into Credence's flesh.

The only indication that Credence felt anything was a tiny gasp, followed by his fingers tightening where they gripped Graves's waistcoat. Graves couldn't speak, couldn't utter reassurances, so he satisfied himself with rubbing soothing circles over Credence's back.

After a moment, as if it were reluctant to rise to the surface, Graves tasted Credence's blood. It hit his tongue, thick and heavy like tar, but sweet like molasses. His tongue felt slick with it, and it burned like a fine whiskey when his throat could finally work to swallow. It curled in his stomach, hot and dark and electric and so _alive_ that Graves could have wept.

Credence's fingers dug into his back, clutching convulsively as a single broken gasp escaped his throat. It colored the blood, made the second mouthful warm with Credence's pleasure. Graves traced his fingers along the boy's spine in a gesture half meant to soothe and half meant to coax. Credence shuddered against him.

A third mouthful followed, then a fourth. Credence's breath grew ragged, he clung to Graves as he shook like a leaf in a storm. Graves could taste the magic in his veins and knew it to be what made the blood so rich and dark and heavy in his gut. He pulled Credence into his lap, used one hand to smooth hair away from a sweat-slicked brow, held him close as he indelicately worked the twin punctures in the boy's neck.

Time stretched, and the only way Graves could reckon it was the flutter of Credence's pulse. It was still fast, but hardly panicked. The bitter tang of anxiety had been replaced by something more electric. One of the boy's hands had found the nape of Graves's neck and gripped it with enough strength that it might have been uncomfortable, had Graves been a human.

Still, that point of contact was enough. Graves swallowed his last mouthful and pulled away. Two beads of blood welled to the surface, blacker than night and oozing a subtle smoke (the obscurus's power sublimating into the air now that it was no longer contained in its host's veins). Graves couldn't help staring for a long moment, watching in wonder. But Credence shifted in his embrace, dragged him back to himself, and he leaned forward to run his tongue over the wounds to close them. Credence shivered but made no sound other than his ragged breathing.

"It's all right, you did very well, my boy," Graves whispered into his ear. He kept one hand braced against Credence's lower back to make sure the boy— _his_ boy—would not tip backwards, while his other hand busied itself rubbing up and down the line of Credence's spine. "You're all right, I've got you. It can be overwhelming."

Credence made a noise that might have been agreement or might have been interrogative, but it was muffled by the fabric where he'd pressed his face into Graves's shoulder. "It's all right, just breathe and you'll be fine."

It was true; as the blood worked its way into his system, it made his senses even keener. He could hear the boy's lungs working to supply him with enough air, his heart beating quickly but not particularly strained. Under Graves's palms, through the fabric of Credence's clothes, he could feel the warmth of him, feel the life that animated him, feel the magic that flowed just beneath the surface. There wasn't any danger.

Graves ran his hand up Credence's back, reveling in the feel of the fabric of his shirt. Long gone were the threadbare hand-me-downs of his life before; Graves had made sure that Credence would never have to wear anything like that again. His fingers caught on the fold of the collar, and he tugged it aside with a frustrated huff. Credence responded with an incoherent murmur and shifted to press himself closer.

Since all traces of tension were gone, Graves settled his palm against Credence's exposed neck. The skin almost burned under his hand, half with actual heat and half with the barely leashed magic of the obscurus. His fingertips found Credence's hair next and paused to soak up the way the strands slid, soft and silky, between them. Gods, what he wouldn't do to stay like this forever: warm, sated, and with his most precious treasure resting bonelessly in his arms.

He must have let some of his train of thought slip past his lips, because Credence burrowed closer and rubbed his cheek against Graves's. "'d like that," he slurred.

The sleepy agreement sent a thrill of happiness thundering through Graves's ribcage, and even he was surprised by the chuckle that followed. His fingers continued their exploration of Credence's hair, following the curve of his skull until he found himself carding his fingers through the boy's hair. He closed his eyes so he could focus on the sensations: the warmth of Credence pressed against him, the softness of his hair, the texture of his shirt contrasting with the coarser fabric of his trousers, and the sweet press of their cheeks.

While Graves would have been content to stay just like this (oh, how his boy's blood had made him lazy), Credence was less so. While he showed no interest in regaining his feet, he quickly grew restless. "Is something the matter?" Graves asked after a few moments. "You—you don't need to stay like this on my account." Though he would certainly feel bereft without Credence as a reassuring weight in his arms.

Credence shook his head once, which has the added effect of tugging his hair out of Graves's fingers and leaving Graves's palm resting against his cheek. His skin was warm and smooth, and he nuzzled at Graves's hand with a sigh. "Don't want to get up," he mumbled. Graves fought down a shiver in feeling Credence's breath ghosting across his wrist.

Still, Credence did not settle. "Are you uncomfortable, my boy?" He ran a thumb over Credence's temple.

"Mmph," Credence responded unhelpfully. He shifted again, then added somewhat more helpfully, "Floor."

"Ah," said Graves, catching his meaning immediately, "yes. Of course." Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away (Gods, it hurt to watch Credence try to follow the contact) and shifted until he had a gentle but firm grip on Credence's thighs. "Hold on to me. I'll move us somewhere more comfortable." Credence made another unhelpful grumble but did as he was instructed. Once Graves felt certain there was no chance of Credence slipping out of his arms, he pushed himself to his feet.

For a tense moment, the room swam. Graves was far too graceful to so much as stumble, but he swayed just a little, enough for Credence to tighten his grip and mumble something Graves didn't catch. Absently, Graves made a soothing noise.

Even when he steadied himself, Graves still felt as if the world wobbled under his feet. Sweet Lord and Lady, had the obscurus's magic made him _drunk?_ It had been decades since he'd been able to properly imbibe, and he'd thought he had forgotten the feeling. And yet…

Credence mumbled something into his shoulder, and Graves weighed his options. The obvious and most comfortable choice was to shuffle them both to Credence's bed, but he couldn't guarantee the walk would be uneventful. Not in this state. He glanced at the sofa, only a few paces away. It was smaller, likely to be less comfortable and certainly more cramped, but it would only take a few strides to reach.

The world listed vaguely sideways. Sofa it was, then. He managed to navigate to it with little difficulty, and some careful adjustment of his grip let him stretch out on it without jostling his charge overmuch. Once he'd arranged himself with his head propped against one arm and feet kicked up over the other, Credence sighed and wedged himself between the back of the sofa and Graves's side.

Credence slung an arm and leg across Graves, then stilled. "Better," he declared.

Graves chuckled again and brushed a lock of Credence's hair away from his face. This… this was nice. Warm affection coiled in his chest, making his unbeating heart ache with its intensity.

Not all of the affection was his, he realized. Of course he was fond of the boy, how could he not be? But the idea that his fondness might be shared… He had never considered that possibility. And yet, here Credence was, pulse slow and steady, contentment so deep that Graves could almost feel it in his own bones.

Gods, when was the last time he'd fed like this? He—

His fangs in his own arm; a vice-like grip keeping his head steady. Blood that tasted like salt and iron.

Graves stilled, fingers hovering near Credence's temple, as he tried to blink the image away.

Credence tilted his face up to study Graves's profile. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, Credence. Don't worry." He affected what he hoped was a lazy, reassuring smile.

He must have missed his mark, because Credence frowned. "Please. Don't." He swallowed, closed his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. "Don't lie to me. Not after that."

A fleeting question fluttered through his mind; did Credence understand that Graves could hardly deny him anything right now? Graves shook his head. "I apologize. You're right. I'm… troubled. I worry that I've maybe overstepped myself."

"You haven't," Credence insisted with such swiftness and ferocity that it would have stolen Graves's breath, if he'd still needed to breathe. "I volunteered. You've done so much. For me, I mean. I wanted— _want_ to do something for you."

Graves shook his head. "I shouldn't have accepted the offer. I'm supposed to _protect_ you. Keep you safe. Keep people from trying to use you again."

"You do that," Credence insisted. All of the languid bonelessness had bled out of him, and he pushed himself up on one elbow to look Graves in the eye. Something fierce and implacable made his gaze almost hard. "I'm not a child. I'm not weak anymore. No one will _ever_ use me again."

Graves flinched, but did his best not to drop his gaze. Very quietly, he said, "You were never weak, Credence."

"Then why are you acting like I am?"

 _Because you're young. Because you deserve better than what you've been given. Because I can't do this to you._ But he couldn't bring himself to say that. Instead, he sighed. "Because you're human. And I haven't been in a very long time."

This, it seemed, had been the wrong thing to say. "I'm not human either, Mister Graves." His words held a subtle edge of something that might have been a threat.

With his senses still heightened, Graves could make out the way that Credence's edges seemed to blur, even in the dim light. Then, the young man was gone, replaced with a seething cloud of black dust shot through with the smallest crackle of red lightning, barely contained. The next moment, Credence coalesced again, this time straddling Graves's hips and holding both of his arms against his side.

His grip wasn't that firm—Graves was certain he could break it with the barest flex of his vampiric strength—but his edges still bled off into curls of inky black. The smoke rolled off of Credence and around Graves, encircling his arms, his wrists, his knees. Some of it drifted up to touch his cheek, leaving a trail of cold that was like the light of a lonely star in the dead of night.

Certainly Graves could break free of Credence's fingers, but he was less certain he could break free of his obscurus. He was less certain that he _wanted_ to. Finally, he said, "I don't want to hurt you, Credence."

His gaze drifted back to the young man's face, saw the way that his eyes were white as bleached bone. His expression was still hard, but there wasn't anger to it, Graves thought. Only determination. When Credence spoke again, his words were distorted by magic and chased with licks of more inky darkness. "You can't hurt me. Ma—Mary Lou hurt me. _He_ hurt me. You won't… won't do what they did."

"There are other ways to hurt someone," Graves said. _So many more._ (But he could not, would not name them, not here.)

Credence closed his eyes and bent forward until their foreheads touched, an echo of an earlier moment. Where his skin had previously felt so warm before, it now burned with icy chill. Graves felt the obscurus rolling over him, no longer holding, simply touching. Credence's lips moved, and Graves strained to hear it: "You can't hurt me. You won't."

And then he collapsed back in on himself, no longer a being of magic and danger; instead he was a boy (a young man; a terrified and terrifying and beautiful monster) shivering against him.

Graves wrapped his arms around Credence and whispered a quick warming charm and tried to ignore the way their lips nearly brushed. He ran his hands over Credence's back in a vain attempt to bring some semblance of warmth to him. He shifted so that Credence could rest his head against Graves's chest, right over where his heart would have beaten when he was still human.

"You're right," Graves confided as he pressed his lips to the top of Credence's head. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I know." No magic garbled his voice now. Instead, it was muffled by the fabric of Graves's shirt as he buried his face against his chest. "Please, let me have this. Let yourself have this."

Graves couldn't bring himself to lie to this boy (his boy), so he said nothing. Just made soothing sounds until the shivering stopped and he knew Credence was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When the dust had settled and they'd extracted Graves from the reinforced cupboard where Grindelwald had kept him, he had been missing for almost six months. President Picquery had overseen his care in the wake of his captivity personally.

"He kept you remarkably well-fed for a man who wanted to hold you indefinitely, or so they tell me," she said from the other side of the privacy screen that had been erected in Graves's hospital room. Even though the room was windowless, Graves felt the press of the sun at its zenith, like an unfortunate itch behind his eyes.

He splashed cool water on his face and patted it down with a towel. The grime that had been ground into his skin had long since been scoured away, but the sensation lingered. Many sensations lingered (but he would not think about them). When it became apparent that Picquery expected a response, he shook his head. "I was more use to him in control of my faculties. He made the mistake of allowing the frenzy to take me once. It was enough."

He'd known Picquery long enough to know that she felt the weight and shape of things he was not saying. She would let him keep these "secrets" (she'd seen the reports, they were hardly hidden from her; she knew whose bones they'd found when they recovered him) if it meant his swift return to his post.

"That's a fair point," Seraphina conceded with her typical grace. "Are you certain you don't need someone to lend you a vein before you go home?" He saw her silhouette shift as she moved closer and slung a bundle of clothing over the top of the screen: a shirt, slacks, waistcoat. All in his usual style, but brand new. Untainted.

The thoughts rose unbidden then, like a crashing wave. Grindelwald, wearing his face. His fangs in an arm that looked like his own but which did not belong to him. His mind brushing up against Grindelwald's. The bond that formed from repeated feedings being used against him. Grindelwald pulling his emotions from it in twisted exchange for his blood.

Graves closed his eyes and draped the towel over the edge of the sink. His hands did not shake, nor did he reach to turn on the tap and try to scrub at stains that were not there. It wouldn't matter anyway; he could wash his body but there was nothing that could cleanse his mind of the feeling.

He shook his head. "I'm certain. Thank you, Madame President."

With rock-steady fingers, he pulled on the clothes that Seraphina had delivered. They hung oddly, having not been tailored, but they were serviceable enough. The fabric was coarser than he cared for; whatever poor apprentice Picquery had roped into the errand had likely done their best with a limited knowledge of cut and fit.

When he faced himself in the mirror, though, he was glad of it. His clothes were plainer (no topstitching, no cufflinks, no collar pins, no tie tacks), his hair was in disarray (when had he last had the chance to style it?), and he still had a handful of cuts on his cheek and forehead that had not yet healed (would not heal until he fed next).

It was a relief. Perhaps he was shabbier, but he bore less resemblance to himself now. And that was fine.

He stepped from behind the privacy screen and under the appraising eye of Seraphina Picquery. Moments ticked by, and finally she crossed her arms and sighed. "You look like hell, Graves. Go home. Owl me when you don't look like a stiff wind will knock you over."

Graves fussed with his collar. It was a useless gesture; the shirt was not made well enough for any amount of his fiddling to improve its state. But it was something to do, so he did it. "I'll go home if you lend me a handful of aurors to burn any piece of furniture in that house that has Grindelwald's stench on it," he said. The words sounded almost glib. He felt a little proud.

"They're yours. Whoever you want. It's the least any of us can do."

"Thank you, Madame President." He hesitated, unsure if he wanted an answer to the question he wanted to ask. Finally, "And my wand?"

"In impound. You'll get it back in a few days." She shook her head. "And before you ask, no, you may not have it any sooner."

He wasn't going to ask, but he played along. "All right. In that case, I'll be collecting my aurors now."

* * *

Graves professed only a vague understanding of who—and what—the Second Salem boy had been; he'd never met the boy himself, and he'd read the reports that had circulated the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the wake of his recovery. He gave no one a reason to suspect he was anything less than truthful. The less he had to consider the facts of his stay in Grindelwald's care, he assured himself, the better everyone would be.

Thankfully, no one thought to interrogate him about the subject. Doubly thankfully, no one thought to involve veritaserum. The concept that he had no knowledge of Credence Barebone prior to Grindelwald's capture was widely accepted as truth.

The fact, however, was this:

A vampire, in feeding from any sort of human, committed to a small amount of psychic contact. It was a well-documented truth that a meal could be rendered more willing and pliant with the proper application of pleasure. The mechanism of such had been hotly debated among practitioners of dark arts, but the common consensus held that this was accomplished through an empathic link with the intended victim. It was instinctual; vampires who could not perform this basic preternatural rapport tended not to survive long after turning. Repeated feedings would only make that connection deeper. Less ephemeral.

What Graves knew of Credence Barebone included almost everything that Grindelwald himself thought, near the end. (He'd mourned the boy, when he read the reports. Quietly. In private. How could he hope to explain why he was mourning someone he'd never met?)

This knowledge pressed down on him with the weight of a mountain as Graves stood stiffly in President Picquery's office. He held his chin high, his shoulders back, and his spine straight as she met his gaze. Seraphina was every inch the manicured, composed, serene figure that her portrait hanging in the hall implied she would be. But her expression was pinched, her lips pressed together in a tight line. "Thank you for your prompt response, Graves," she said. Her voice held an undercurrent of agitation and exhaustion.

"Of course, Madame President." The response was automatic. "But if I may ask, why call me here when sunset is hours away?"

"I won't take any more of your time that I need to, given the hour," she said, "but I have a problem that I feel you are… uniquely equipped to handle." She rubbed the bridge of her nose as if that would do anything to relieve what was surely the nightmarish administrative headache she was about to dump in Graves's lap. He waited. "Not to belabor the point, but what do you know about Credence Barebone, really?"

"Enough," Graves hedged after a moment. "He was Grindelwald's true target in New York, and he used my position to gain access to him before he was exposed."

Rather than let the facts go unspoken, Picquery nodded, "Yes, before I ordered that the the boy be executed. A decision that no small number of individuals—whether they were involved or not—have expressed their disagreement with."

Graves shrugged. He had never declared his position, but he suspected Seraphina knew. The reports had stated Goldstein was calming the boy down. Graves would not have let his aurors fire.

But, like Picquery had said, they were not here to belabor any points. "You're a very busy woman, Madame President. Please, let me know what I can do for you so you can get on with your day."

Picquery smirked. "No need to be so formal, Percival," she said. "You're welcome to tell me to spit it out and stop wasting your time on frivolous pleasantries." At the arch of his eyebrow, she laughed. "Here's the situation I find myself in: I gave the order to have a boy executed, and to all appearances it was carried out."

The world trembled for a moment. A surge of something that Graves couldn't quite name rose in his chest. Something delicate hung in the air, anchored by the words that Picquery had not yet spoken. Graves shifted his weight and said nothing.

"Percival, I know that I'm in _no_ position to be asking personal favors of you," Seraphina said, the mantle of her position falling by the wayside as she let her shoulders droop. "I've failed you. I've failed the witches and wizards of this city. I very nearly failed all of wizardkind. You would have every right to refuse to do this for me."

Graves swallowed. He was not a stupid man. He could see in which direction the conversation was now hurtling. "What do you need, Seraphina?"

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. He could hear her heartbeat across the distance between them: quick, but slowing as she worked to reclaim her calm. Once her pulse was regular again, she opened her eyes. "I have, in one of the holding cells downstairs, an individual who is not, strictly speaking, supposed to be alive."

"The Barebone boy." It was not a question. The world seemed to hold its breath.

"Percival, this boy is dangerous, but fate has given me the chance to do right by him. You're the only person I can think of who has a chance of standing up to him if… Well, if things go poorly. This has to be unofficial, at least until things have settled down and the inquiry is done."

A hundred objections rose in his mind, but he voiced none of them. Credence Barebone, against all odds, had survived. And Seraphina was giving Graves the chance to help him after his position of power had been used to do so much harm.

There were so many reasons why this was a horrible idea. But Graves couldn't find it in himself to refuse. "I'll be extremely discreet."

Seraphina nodded. "Thank you. I'll make sure he's ready to be transported once you've made any preparations for having a houseguest."

"Who else—"

She did not give him room to finish his question. "The Goldsteins, because Porpentina found him, and what she knows, Queenie knows. Myself, obviously. The two house elves that have been tending to him. And now, you."

After a moment, Graves asked, "Does he know?"

Seraphina, again, did not shy away, did not leave things unspoken. "About Grindelwald impersonating you? Yes. About his potential wardship under your care? No. About your… delicate relationship with daylight? Also no. I wouldn't dare speak on your behalf."

He nodded. These were as he expected. "I'd like to meet him now, if it's not too much of a bother."

"Of course," Seraphina said. She rolled her shoulders and once more became President Picquery.

To his surprise, Picquery led him to the Barebone boy (Credence) herself. She waved her wand at one of the bookcases lining the back wall of her office and it slid obligingly to one side. The narrow staircase behind it lit up as they entered, and the lights doused themselves behind them as they passed. Eventually, they reached the bottom, and Picquery tapped the wall in front of them to open the brickwork.

Graves was familiar with most of the holding cells in MACUSA's headquarters, having imprisoned and interrogated no small number of criminals in his tenure with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. This gray, door-lined hallway was unfamiliar. Every inch of the stonework had been ensorcelled with containment charms, anti-magic enchantments, and other, older things that Graves's instincts told him had involved bloodshed. The sum of it all made his skin want to crawl off his bones.

Picquery gave him an apologetic look. "I had to be sure that he couldn't cause any trouble. These halls are the most heavily warded in the entire building. You could set all of Scamander's beasts loose ten times over and not scratch a single stone here."

Picquery stopped outside one door halfway down the hall. It had a small window set into it, through which Graves could see a dull gray room, sparsely furnished with only a handful of utilitarian items: a chair, a cot, a cramped desk. And, on that cot, sat a boy (young man). Credence.

He looked so much more haggard than he had in the impressions Graves had skimmed from Grindelwald's mind. He was so painfully thin under the loose shirt and pants he had been given, and he sported a multitude of tiny cuts and bruises on what little skin he could see.

The parts of him that Grindelwald had touched still saw prey. A broken tool.

Graves refused those thoughts so vehemently that he almost snarled. "Seraphina, please open this door."

She tapped it three times in quick succession, and the door swung open. Credence's head jerked up, and he skittered backward on the cot until his back was against the wall behind him. Graves somehow managed not to flinch in sympathy, but only just.

He approached slowly, coming a few steps over the threshold. "Mister Barebone," he said as gently as he could.

Credence looked up at him. Cast his eyes at the floor. Looked up at him again. Based on the dark circles under his eyes, Graves guessed he hadn't slept more than a handful of hours in the past few days. "I know who you are." His voice cracked as if he hadn't used it in a while. "Miss Picquery told me. That you aren't Him."

Graves nodded. "That's right. Gellert Grindelwald used my face and my position of power to cause a lot of harm. To the city, and to you."

Credence kept his gaze steady. The fear ebbed away, leaving mostly exhaustion and a thread of curiosity. "Why are you here, Mister Graves?"

"To make you an offer. And, perhaps, make amends."

That piqued the boy's interest, and he was too tired to keep it off his face. "Amends for what? You've never met me. I haven't met you. Before right now, I mean."

"Someone used my face to hurt you," Graves said. "I feel that it is my duty to try to right the wrongs Grindelwald committed while using my name."

"What are you offering?" Credence asked.

"A warm bed. Regular meals. Clothing, books, an education, if you want them."

The boy narrowed his eyes as he considered Graves's words. Skepticism warred with plain wanting, but the circumstances that had shaped Credence and brought him to this place tipped the balance. Skepticism won. "What price do I have to pay for all that, Mister Graves?"

"You will have to look at my face the whole time," Graves said. He glanced over his shoulder; Picquery had drifted away (left him to his own devices), and he'd been too focused on Credence to notice it. He took a few more steps to cross the distance between the door and the cot to give himself more of a sense of privacy. Voice low, he continued, "I know some of what Grindelwald told you. What he did while he looked like me. You have no reason to trust me, but I promise I _will not_ let you come to harm. Ever. If you can live with that, live with me, then my home is as good as yours."

Moments ticked by, measured in Credence's erratic heartbeats. He studied Graves's face as the silence stretched, and Graves did his best not to close himself off from the boy's scrutiny.

"You aren't like Him at all," Credence pronounced.

The statement startled a ghost of a smile out of Graves. "Thank you, Credence. That means more to me than you know."

He shook his head. "I think I understand just fine. When can we go home?"

* * *

A vampire of Graves's age and power could go as long as three weeks between feedings, under the proper circumstances. Of course, Graves's circumstances were less than ideal. He strained to move, but found his hands and legs shackled with silver-lined cuffs. The idea that silver could hold him on its own was laughable, but the cuffs themselves were ash wood, and charmed to Deliverance Day and back. Gods damn it all. Someone did not want him to move.

He shifted, tried to get at least a little more comfortable as he assessed the situation. The darkness was magical, of that he could be certain. Next to him, though he could not see it, he could sense the shape of a body. It was warm, but its pulse was thready and its breathing shallow. He could smell the tang of drying blood.

His own body hadn't fared much better. He had at least one cracked rib, and he was fairly certain neither his left ankle nor left knee would support him in their current state. He had a gash over one eye that had oozed sluggishly, but that was cosmetic damage. _Maybe I'll develop a rakish scar,_ he thought. Of course, that would require making it out of this no more dead than he normally was.

Next to him, the body groaned. He recognized the voice; one of his junior aurors, Peter Galen. Memories rushed back in a flood. Galen had invited him for drinks, had been so earnest about it that Graves hadn't the heart to tell the boy that he was incapable of partaking (that the overture was flattering, but misplaced). Galen had taken him to a wizarding bar down on Gwydion Square and then gotten so blotto on gigglewater that Graves had shouldered most of his weight as he'd teased out Galen's address in between fits of raucous laughter. And then… Lord and Lady damn it all.

"Galen, can you hear me?" he whispered. _Please, tell me you're all right. Please._

The boy groaned again, and Graves could hear him trying to shift into some other position. "Yessir," he slurred. Thank the gods.

"Do you remember what happened?" It was a long shot, but Graves had to ask.

Galen struggled, huffed, then stopped moving. "Nossir. Where're we? Can't see shit. Sir."

"I don't know," Graves admitted. "I can't see through the darkness, either. Are you hurt?"

"Gotta headache. Might be the gigglewater. Prob'ly took one to the head." Galen made a strangled sound that Graves realized was supposed to be a chuckle. "Wand arm's no good. Legs don't feel good either. Shit."

"All right, that's all right, don't worry." _I'll do the worrying for the both of us._ He tested the shackles at his wrists, tugging until he felt the chains go taut, then pulling beyond that. The enchantment sparked and sent a jolt of electricity through him. Graves hissed and let his arms go limp. So much for that. Their captor _really_ did not want him to move.

"Sir?" Galen croaked.

"It's fine. Just testing my limits here."

"Don't sound fine. You hurt?"

"I'm fine," he lied through clenched teeth.

"Sir… I know I'm in a state but you didn't hire me 'cause I'm pretty. You ain't telling the truth and I know it." Galen huffed again as he squirmed on the floor, his breathing strained as he tried to move himself. Finally, Graves felt the warm press of Galen's abdomen against his knee. "Shit! That smarts."

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" Graves demanded. "If you're as injured as you say, you shouldn't be flopping around."

Galen scoffed. "What, you gonna demote me for it? Respectfully speaking, sir, but I'm no use in getting us outta this mess. But what do you reckon our chances are if I give you a vein, eh?"

The response was immediate and perhaps a little more vehement than Graves intended. "Absolutely not. I can't tell exactly what's wrong with you, but you're injured enough already. I am not going to add blood loss to that. Especially not when we don't even know what we're up against."

Silence. Hopefully Galen was considering the situation. Graves tested the reach of the bonds on his wrists again, this time seeing if he could try to lay a hand on Galen. For comfort, or solidarity, or restraint. The boy sighed. "We're up a creek, huh?"

"Probably." Gods, this would be easier if he could remember who'd dragged them off to be locked up in darkness. "You said your wand arm is no good. I don't suppose you _have_ your wand?"

"No sir. Wish we were so lucky." Graves could imagine the sour expression on Galen's face. "Not even gonna ask about yours."

They lapsed into silence. With his hand on Galen's chest, Graves felt the boy's breathing even out as he drifted in and out of a doze. He marked the time by the pressure of the sun and by the heartbeat of his companion. Graves had no doubt that he'd been the target of this mess, that poor Galen had just been collateral damage in this kidnapping.

After what he thought must have been about four hours, the darkness dissipated, replaced with a searing light that burned like sunlight but not quite so hot. He sucked in a breath out of reflex more than necessity and tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes. The chain snapped taut well short, sending another shock up his arm. Graves snarled, curled in on himself to protect his face from the brightness. Galen groaned beside him.

"Ah, Percy—may I call you Percy?—it's good to see you're awake. Did you know that you are a difficult man to get an appointment with?"

Cold dread washed over Graves. He did not have to uncurl himself to know who spoke.

"If you wanted an appointment, Gellert, you could have just introduced yourself to the doorman at the Woolworth," Graves said. He was proud of the fact that his words were even and did not waver. "I would have been happy to see you."

Grindelwald tutted. "Don't worry, I will see the inside of that place soon enough, Percy. But first, I have a proposition for you." Cold fingers gripped Graves's chin and forced his head up. The shock of Grindelwald's living spark thrummed in his ribcage like the beating of a massive drum and left a sickly metallic tang on the back of Graves's tongue.

Grindelwald's visage was backlit by the conjured pseudo-sunlight, but Graves could read his expression just fine: cold, dispassionate, _hungry._ The iron grip on his jaw kept Graves from turning away. He said nothing; if Grindelwald expected a response, Graves would not give it to him.

At his side, Galen made a strangled sort of whimper. Without looking down, without letting Graves look down, Grindelwald said, "Shh. Don't struggle. That will only make things worse." The aroma of fresh blood, hot and living, hit Graves's nostrils. His throat burned with the wanting.

As if Graves had spoken, Grindelwald smiled. "Yes, I imagine that your body is eager to heal the damage. Here is my proposition, Percy: you take blood from me, you give me the information I ask for. In exchange, I will let you and this pretty little thing live."

He brought his other hand into Graves's view. His fingers were slicked red. The smell overwhelmed everything else. Graves couldn't tear his gaze away from the contrast of Grindelwald's white skin and the crimson of the blood. Peter Galen's blood. Oh _gods._ He tried to pull away, but Grindelwald's grip was implacable.

Grindelwald's smile just grew wider. "Oh, Percy, don't struggle. It will only make things worse." He smeared the blood (Peter's blood, it was _Peter's blood_ ) over the wrist that was so very, very close to Graves's mouth. "Here, wouldn't it be easier to just have a taste?"

"Sir," Peter muttered, voice distant and garbled. But it was enough to make Graves recall that the heat at his knee was Peter's, that the thready pulse, the flicker of a spark belonged to his most junior auror. Graves bared his teeth in a snarl.

"I won't," he spat, wrenching his jaw out of Grindelwald's grip.

He locked eyes with Peter, poor Peter who had asked him out for a drink and was now lying on the floor with his right arm bent at an unnatural angle and a long, red gash running up the side of his face. The cut bled so freely, like most facial wounds do, but he _would not._

Grindelwald tutted again. "Such a pity. But you will learn. I'll give you some time to consider my proposition." He snapped his fingers, the ones not coated in blood, and the light snuffed itself. "Oh, and one other thing for you to think on…"

His foot lashed out. Caught Graves in the ribs, right above the one he knew was cracked. The bone snapped. Graves collapsed. Grindelwald's heel hammered down on Graves's already injured knee. The toe of his shoe connected with Graves's jaw.

His vision swam. He could vaguely make out Peter's wide-eyed, terrified face. Then the magical darkness descended again and Grindelwald was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Disentangling himself from Credence was a difficult endeavor. The boy would likely sleep for hours, was probably sleeping more deeply than he had in months, if not years. Slipping out from under him and arranging him more comfortably on the couch without disturbing him would be a trivial thing.

Less trivial for Graves was convincing himself that he _wanted_ to. That staying on the sofa (basking in the gentle hum of Credence's living spark, the slow thudding of his heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his chest) was not a viable option. It would so easy to stay. So dangerous. By the time he'd finally convinced himself to move, finally slipped off the sofa and draped a blanket across Credence, sunrise loomed close.

He'd taken to avoiding his study (avoiding the stacks of case files to which Grindelwald had signed his name), but he retreated there now. Before—Lord and Lady take him, he would _not_ give any more of his thoughts to that man—in less harrowing times, the high shelves and the aroma of ancient papers provided comfort and grounding when he needed it. Perhaps, now, in this time of need, he could find that again.

No candles or magelights burned in the room, nor was the moonlight strong enough to seep between the slats of the shutters. There was no sense to illuminating anything that Credence was not using, and less sense conjuring light when he knew the topology of the room so well, even without his heightened senses.

He stalked the perimeter, trailed his hand along the books shelved at waist-height. The residual effects of the obscurial blood turned the leather bindings beneath his fingertips into something sumptuous. He'd completed three circuits doing nothing but focusing on just that sensation when he felt the sun crest the horizon.

The shock of it snapped him out of his daze. Once the sun had risen, Credence typically followed not long after. Graves shook his head to clear it. Slipped out of his study. Closed the door behind himself.

Before his thoughts could catch up with him, he started the motions of making breakfast. Like clockwork, he heard the sounds of Credence rising as he finished plating the bacon, eggs, and toast.

"Good morning, Mister Graves," Credence greeted from the doorway to the dining room. His voice was heavy with the dregs of sleep. He'd washed and put on clean clothing, but he held himself with the languidness of one still not quite awake.

"Good morning, Credence. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes. I mean. Well." Color rose to Credence's face, but to his credit, he did not cast his gaze at the floor. "I think that maybe I would feel better if—if next time, I slept in a bed."

The comment caught Graves so off-guard that he would have spluttered if he'd been a lesser man. He settled for raising a single eyebrow. "I will take that under advisement. You feel well otherwise?"

Credence slid into the chair opposite the place Graves had set for him. He bowed his head over the meal, lips tracing the outline of a prayer, before he nodded. "Just a little tired. But good." He picked up his fork. "I know you don't sleep, but…" He stopped. Started again. "Are _you_ well?"

Credence's words from the previous night echoed in Graves's head: _Don't lie to me. Not after that._ Graves picked his words carefully and rolled them around on his tongue before settling on them. "It's nothing for you to worry about, my boy. It seems that your… unique condition makes your blood a bit richer than I expected." Plausible, reasonable, and not untrue.

"Is that… bad?" Credence asked between mouthfuls of eggs.

Graves felt the sharp jab of apprehension so keenly that it took a moment to realize that it belonged to _Credence._ Lord and Lady. Had he really fed so deeply that he still had a connection with the boy? Or was this another function of feeding from an obscurial?

He pulled out the chair nearest Credence and sat down. "No, not at all. Just… Different."

Credence nodded, curiosity appeased. He tucked in the rest of his breakfast without further conversation, but he radiated a deep satisfaction that threatened drown him. Gods.

* * *

Before—before, Graves had spent alternating mornings in his office in the Woolworth building, but that habit had died once he'd agreed to host Credence in his home. Instead, he spent his mornings tutoring Credence in the basics of spellwork.

Enlisting the assistance of Tina and the two house elves who'd tended Credence while he'd been in Picquery's care, Graves had converted one of his spare bedrooms into a heavily-warded workspace. They'd transfigured most of the furniture (save for a couple of chairs and the heavy wardrobe) into various items Graves and Tina recalled training with during their time at Ilvermorny. Most of the items were benign: plain dishware, soft pillows, a stack of feathers. However, Tina had also transfigured a floppy manakin with a sloppy face scrawled on the blank head. This, she had explained, was named Hugo, and he would be Credence's partner when it came time for dueling practice.

(Once Tina left, Graves stuffed Hugo into the cupboard, never to be seen again if he had his way.)

"Do you recall where we left off yesterday?" Graves asked over his shoulder as they climbed the stairs.

"Self-defense," Credence responded without hesitation. "And shielding charms."

Graves opened the door to the workspace, letting Credence enter first. The windows on the far side of the room had long been covered with thick fabric and their shutters latched closed, so the room fell into complete darkness once Graves closed the door behind them.

He tapped Credence's elbow to get his attention, then pressed the handle of his wand into Credence's waiting fingers. The boy's spark felt subdued where their hands brushed against each other. Hesitant. Credence glanced up in the direction of Graves's face, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought. Graves let his hand drop back to his side. "If you would, my boy?"

Credence blinked as if startled, then nodded. He rolled Graves's wand between his fingers, feeling out how to hold it without being able to see what he was doing. (Graves remembered how badly the idea of someone else holding his wand had chafed at first, but now he couldn't deny the satisfaction he derived from seeing it in Credence's elegant fingers.) He cleared his throat and raised Graves's wand just as he'd been shown. " _Lumos maxima._ "

The word still didn't sit well on his tongue, but practice would fix that. His magic and the wand didn't care about that. Light bloomed at the tip of it, then zipped forward and split into three separate orbs that finally came to rest in the wall sconces.

Now that he could see, Credence adjusted where he directed his gaze so that he could properly meet Graves's eyes. His expression was so soft, one corner of his mouth turned up in a shy half-smile. Graves realized after several moments of staring, that he'd meant to speak.

"Well done, Credence," he managed around the sudden lump in his throat. "Your pronunciation is much better. Now, show me what you remember of the proper stance for casting a shielding charm."

The smile fell away, subsumed by a look of concentration as Credence arranged his limbs in a wide-legged stance that angled most of his body-mass away from Graves. He shifted his grip on the handle of Graves's wand and held it in a stiff-wristed grip in front of him. Once he'd gotten as close as he could recall, he tilted his head back in Graves's direction. Looking for some indication of how well he'd done, perhaps.

"Not bad, not bad." Graves circled Credence, slipping into the voice he used with every new class of junior aurors. "You've got a good handle on the basics of it, but your posture isn't quite right. Here." With a light touch, Graves tipped Credence's chin up, then squared the boy's shoulders. The boy's pulse stuttered for a moment before he took a deep breath and steadied himself. "All right?"

"Yes, Mister Graves." His voice did not quaver, but his heartbeat still fluttered.

Graves stood behind Credence and placed a hand on the wrist of his wand hand. "The trick is to keep your stance, your foundation, solid. But then you have to allow for fluidity as you work." He moved Credence's wrist, rolling it until the boy caught on and let it rest loose in Graves's grasp. "Perfect." Graves stepped away. "See, it's already changed how you hold your wand. Good wand discipline involves letting yourself be flexible."

Credence took another deep breath nodded. Something that Graves couldn't quite read flitted across his face but was gone as quickly as it came. "I understand."

"Good. Now, shield yourself just as I showed you."

It took a while for Credence to reliably form a shield that didn't gutter out after a few seconds, but Graves could hardly blame him. The basis of a shield charm involved conceptualizing safety. Something that he was sure Credence was only passingly familiar with, and even then only after being torn apart by magic and then given into the care of a vampire who shared a face with someone who'd used him.

That he'd even gotten this far was miraculous (though Graves knew better than to give voice to that thought in Credence's presence).

They took a break for lunch when Credence's wand arm drooped too often to not be exhaustion. Graves stepped through preparing food (oh, how easy it had been to convince himself he didn't miss it when he hadn't needed to cook), and Credence ate it with more gusto than breakfast while Graves sat across from him.

At length, he finally spoke. "You're doing very well. I know some junior aurors whose technique is not so neat as yours."

Color flooded Credence's face and he ducked his head to hide it. Graves thought he caught a glimpse of that almost-smile again. "Well," he mumbled at the plate in front of him. "Their teacher must not be as good as mine."

Despite himself, Graves laughed. The sound deepened the boy's flush, made him study his plate more intensely. "You flatter me, Credence." Graves laid a hand on Credence's shoulder. His living spark fairly hummed against his palm, even through his clothing. "There are plenty of wizards better at instruction than I am. You're just an exceptional student."

"Oh. Um. Well." Credence made a nervous sound somewhat akin to laughter. He tore his gaze from the remains of his lunch and turned to face Graves. His cheeks were still flushed, and it was clear from his rabbit-fast pulse that he was nowhere near composed. Finally, he added, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, my boy," Graves responded, off-hand. Automatic. "You're always welcome."

An expression bloomed on Credence's face, the likes of which Graves had not yet seen, not truly. It began around his dark, dark eyes, then worked its way down to the corners of his mouth until he was favoring Graves with a tentative but genuine smile. "Thank you," he repeated. The words hung in the air, heavier, with deeper meaning.

Meeting Credence's eyes, all Graves could think was, _Oh._

* * *

Things changed, though Graves wasn't quite certain if that moment had been the catalyst or if it was just the first shift. In most ways, it was subtle; Graves might have missed it if he hadn't been devoting so much attention to Credence and his needs. If he hadn't been a vampire. Other ways were less so.

He'd always had a tendency to bend toward touch like a moth drawn to a flame or a plant to sunlight, but it had been so rare for Credence to be the one to reach out. His limbs, outside of wand practice, tended to be folded close to his body, as if he were afraid to inhabit any amount of space. If he needed to graze past Graves, he would make himself small, would hug the wall, would shrink back. Now he shied away less. Let his elbow brush Graves's. Let his fingertips linger when he passed Graves a book or a pen or his wand. The jolt of his spark was unmistakable and heady, something Graves couldn't ignore even if he hadn't noticed the fleeting contact. (But, oh, he noticed; there was no way he could not.)

When Graves touched him—to adjust his posture during spellwork, to reassure when his anxiety was harsh enough to taste, to praise him for a task well-done (and sometimes just for Graves's own benefit)—Credence leaned in a little bit harder, more. Stepping in to help Credence with his stance became an invitation (or perhaps had always _been_ an invitation, which was only now being accepted) to move closer, to press his back against Graves's chest while he arranged Credence's shoulders or arms or head as Graves saw fit. A hand on Credence's shoulder might become an arm slung over him as Credence turned into it, slithered under it, made a space for himself there.

Days turned into nights. Credence slept so soundly that Graves only felt a tiny pang of guilt when he apparated to the Woolworth building and collected a polite stack of papers from the night-shift auror on duty. He took it home to sort through while he kept a keen ear out for signs of distress from the spare room. There were startlingly few.

Nights turned into days. Graves avoided his study, avoided the files there, avoided the owl that delivered his copies of the _New York Ghost._ Mornings were for spellwork, afternoons were for equal parts study and leisure. Credence did not exactly come alive; he was still a reserved young man, still not quite comfortable using his own voice. But he shucked layers of hesitancy in the days that followed, stood a little straighter, stared at his shoes or his hands or the carpet while he spoke a little less often.

Though Graves could not fathom what had sparked the change, he found himself grateful all the same.

* * *

Credence had inhaled half of his meal before setting his silverware aside and glancing up in his direction. "Mister Graves. May I ask you something?"

Graves set aside the case report Mallory had handed him the night before. It was a trifling matter (a handful of break-ins around lower Manhattan with no items stolen, though every residence had at least a handful of dishes broken; either someone had drummed up a poltergeist, or someone was pretending they were one). He gave Credence his full attention. "I dare say you already have."

Credence's cheeks grew pink at the teasing, which drew a chuckle from Graves. He held his hands up in a gesture of contrition. "You're welcome to ask whatever you like. Please, by all means."

"Ah. Well." Credence's gaze dropped to his hands, folded neatly in front of his plate. "Mister Graves, I know that you need… certain things. To eat, I mean. But you never talk about it. When you need to do it. Or who's. Who's helping you."

 _Oh,_ he thought, but he said nothing.

"If it's not too forward, I…" Credence raised his eyes, a hopeful expression scrawled across his face. Graves felt something dark curl in the pit of his stomach. He was not certain he cared for the sensation. "I don't mind. Really."

 _Oh._ This was not where Graves wanted the conversation to be going, but he couldn't find the words or the will to steer it off this course. The look of bald wanting in Credence's eyes turned Graves's tongue to lead in his mouth.

Credence unfolded his hands, stretched his arm toward Graves, and rested his fingertips on the back of Graves's wrist where the cuff of his shirt had ridden up just a little. Even this small contact was enough to make that dark thing in his gut twist, and he could recognize it for what it was: _hunger._ Lord and Lady help him, he couldn't deny how badly he wanted.

Unbidden, he remembered how it had felt to sink his fangs into Credence's neck, how thick and heavy and intoxicating his blood had been. How much he had enjoyed holding him close while he'd been boneless and hovering at the edge of euphoria. Graves swallowed. Without realizing it, he'd placed his other hand over Credence's, effectively trapping his elegant fingers. Credence had shifted closer, leaning toward him like a flower leans toward the sun. _Gods._

"My boy…" Graves trailed off, unsure what to even say. His words felt like ash in his throat and the heat of Credence's skin under his palm only served to remind him of his thirst. "My boy, I…"

He what? Couldn't? Wouldn't? He already had. Every objection that Graves could think of, he'd dismissed a little more than a week before. And that time, he'd had no idea what it would be like to have Credence in his arms.

The silence stretched, filled only with Credence's fluttering pulse and his deep, even breaths as he fought to keep his composure. His longing was so plain that Graves could almost taste it in the air, and it made his insides twist. How had he let this happen? A moment of weakness, and now he had this boy (his boy) practically begging for Graves to take advantage of him again.

His stomach lurched, not with hunger but with guilt.

"Mister Graves." His name sounded almost reverent like this as it sliced through the silence. Credence had stood and taken the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. He'd made no motion to take his hand back. His other hand was already at his throat, already unbuttoning his collar. This time his fingers did not shake, and Graves could not tear his eyes away from them.

Graves swallowed. "Credence, please." He could have been asking for a million different things: _please stop; please come closer; please let me hold you; please don't do this; please._ So many words, so many conflicting desires, all tangled in a hard lump in his throat.

Credence nodded as if he understood (how could he when Graves didn't even understand himself). He slipped his hand free of Graves's hold, and Graves thought, _Good, he's come to his senses._ But instead of turning around, of leaving the room, of doing anything sensible, Credence leaned forward to rest his forehead on Graves's shoulder.

"Credence," he whispered, and it was a warning.

"It's all right," Credence said. "I want. I want to be useful. Let me be useful."

The words hit Graves in the gut. He'd heard them before— _I want to be useful, Mister Graves_ —but they hadn't been said to _him._ His skin crawled. He could remember the scene so clearly: his hands on Credence's shoulders, keeping the boy from hunching over, words dripping off his tongue like poison, _I think I've found a use for you, my dear boy, what do you say?_ The way Credence almost dragged his eyes away from the ground in the dirty alley. _I want to be useful, Mister Graves._ But it had never really been _him._

Graves raised his hands to Credence's shoulders in a perverse parody of the memory that wasn't his. He ignored it and managed, somehow, to push Credence away. He held the boy at arm's length long enough to regain his own feet. " _No,_ " he said with far more force than he'd intended. "No."

Before his eyes, Credence crumbled. All hope, all traces of confidence disappeared in an instant. His shoulders sagged, his head dropped, he became a mirror image to the boy from not-his memory. That dark, insidious coil of guilt tightened around Graves's heart, which ached already at seeing Credence lain so low by his words.

And below that, the hunger still lurked. He wanted so fiercely to pull Credence back down and cradle him close while he let his fangs pierce soft, pale flesh… ( _I think I've found a use for you…_ ) Through clenched teeth, Graves said, "I'm sorry."

Graves had tried to maintain a sense of normalcy between himself and Credence. Part of this had been choosing not to use his supernatural speed when in the boy's presence. With normalcy shredded and tossed to the winds, what was one more thing? He let go of Credence's shoulder, stood, and fled the room before the boy could even blink.

* * *

The note he sent to Tina was short to the point of being terse: _Tina, Require your assistance with personal matter. Floo A.S.A.P., wards open. —P. Graves_

The note he received was even shorter: _What? —Tina_

He dashed off another note, which he did not bother to sign: _Not at liberty to discuss on paper. Floo A.S.A.P. Please._

It was, he imagined, the fact that he underlined "please" three times that got Tina's attention. Within a few minutes, she appeared in his study in a puff of green flame, wild-eyed and with her wand at the ready. Even in such miserable circumstances, he was proud.

"Easy, Tina," he said, holding up both of his hands palm-out to show he was not armed.

"Mister Graves, what's going on?" She didn't put away her wand, but she did let it drop. "Is something wrong?"

"It's complicated. My ability to keep Credence safe has become compromised." If it had ever existed at all.

Tina's eyes narrowed and her expression darkened. "What's happened?" In that moment, Graves knew to the very bottom of his being that Tina would not hesitate to flay him depending on what his next words were. Good.

"He's all right, at least physically, but…" He shook his head. "I know this might come as a shock to you, but the deposition I gave may have been… less than complete." He ignored Tina's scoff. "There are certain things that I felt Congress and the President did not need to know about my captivity because, at the time, it affected no one but myself."

"Sir, am I going to have to take you in?" With the assurance of Credence's physical safety, Tina looked a bit less willing to try to engage Graves in single combat.

"No, it's not like that. The only power Grindelwald still holds over me is in how I can't trust myself with Credence. Please, just trust me when I say that it's complicated."

Tina studied him for a moment, tilting her head to one side and scowling as she did so. "... All right. If you say it's complicated, I'll believe you. But sir… does he know that you're asking me to do this?"

Graves shook his head. "No."

As if that meant something that Graves didn't understand, Tina nodded. Her face was grim, but she slid her wand into her pocket. "All right. I'll take him in for a while, but you and I are going to need to have a serious discussion about what started this at some point."

"At some point," Graves echoed, though he did not agree.

* * *

 **Interlude**

Credence stumbled as they appeared in Tina's home. Her gentle grip on his shoulder kept him upright, but only just. The room swam for a moment before it righted itself and he was able to stand straight.

"Easy," said Tina. "Are you all right?"

 _No,_ he wanted to say. _Why did this happen?_ he wanted to ask. _What did I do wrong? I thought he cared. I felt it. Does he hate me because I'm a monster?_ But he held the words behind tightly-clenched teeth and just nodded.

Another woman's voice dragged his attention back to his surroundings. "Oh, honey." She sat next to the hearth, wearing a dressing gown and her hair in curlers, waving a wand over a piece of clothing that was stitching itself up. She stood, leaving the garment to mend itself, and crossed the distance between them. "Oh, honey, no. You're not a monster."

Tina sighed. "This is my sister, Queenie," she muttered to Credence, "Queenie, this is—"

"Credence, right?" Queenie interrupted. He nodded again. She took one of his hand in both of hers. Her fingers were long, delicate, and warm. So different from his scarred, ugly palms. Her painted lips turned down in a frown. "Teenie, how about you put on some milk for cocoa? I think our Credence could use a little pick-me-up."

Tina looked as if she might say something, then shook her head and shuffled off toward what Credence assumed was the kitchen. It left him standing alone with Queenie. He couldn't quite see the resemblance, especially given their different dispositions.

Queenie laughed. "You're not the only one. Some days, even we're not too sure we're related. But that's okay, we still love each other."

Credence started. "What?"

"I'm sorry, honey, did Teenie not tell you?" Queenie sighed in a mirror of Tina not moments before, which brought their relation into clearer focus. "I can hear what people think sometimes. Especially when they're hurting. And you're hurting a lot right now."

"I…" He had no rebuttal, so he stopped. Started again on a different path. "So you know why I'm here?"

Queenie shook her head. "No, I just know why you _think_ you're here, which I'm pretty sure isn't right. You're a sweet boy. I don't think anyone hates you, and I can think of at least a couple of people who care."

"I think you're very nice, Miss Goldstein," Credence said, eyes downcast. Queenie wore pink house shoes with tiny bows on them. His Ma—Mary Lou—would have hated them. "I think you're very nice, but. I think that Mister Graves is disgusted and he can't bear to have me around. And he said it was for my safety so he wouldn't hurt my feelings."

Tina came back with a tray on which sat three steaming mugs. "That's not true, Credence," she said. "He would never be disgusted with you. Anyone with eyes can see that." She set the tray on the low coffee table and pressed one of the mugs into his free hand. "I don't know what happened, and I don't care. He'll come around, don't worry."

He raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. It was warm and sweet, just like both of the Goldsteins.

Queenie laughed and patted the back of his hand. "You're sweet, too. Don't worry, just think about this like a vacation. You're visiting us for a little while, and you'll go home all nice and rested and ready to handle whatever's going to happen next."

That sounded nice, Credence thought, but he wasn't quite sure if he could bring himself to believe it.


	4. Chapter 4

While Graves spent the first few days huddled in his study, pretending to pore over the case files that needed his attention, it turned out that circumstances left him less time to stew (in his misery, in his failures) than he expected. Certainly he felt the ache around where his long-dormant heart rested in his chest, and he still felt a surge of disappointment when he saw that Credence's coat no longer hung on its hook.

But the print on the pages he stared at slowly began to resolve themselves. Eventually they were no longer just a jumble of lines, were instead meaningful language.

A week after Credence left (after he had sent Credence somewhere safer), Graves found something.

* * *

The sheaves of paper scattered around his study painted an ugly, worrisome tableau.

Graves had long since abandoned the idea of keeping a fire in the hearth; no one was left in his home who cared about the cold, and he had other concerns besides. With the sun set, he'd thrown open the shutters to let the pale moonlight in, and he had used his wand to summon a few floating sparks of light to ensure his eyes weren't deceiving him in the dark.

They were not.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, Graves thought. Not really. Of course, Grindelwald had abused Graves's position of power to seek out an obscurial without raising any suspicion, but it was ludicrous to assume he hadn't done other things. And now, after days of combing every single case that had ever crossed his desk while Grindelwald was behind it, Graves had the vague outline of what some of those things had been. Aided, perhaps, by the impressions of Grindelwald's mind that he'd gleaned when he'd been forced to feed on the dark wizard ( _don't_ ), a picture resolved itself in his mind's eye.

If it wouldn't result—had likely already _resulted_ —in loss of life, Graves might have appreciated the artistry of it. An insurance policy of sorts, he supposed, in case Grindelwald's mission to retrieve the obscurial failed. The files told of a web of traffickers of stolen magical goods, of sentences commuted, of infractions forgiven, of a hundred points in a constellation. Good gods.

Graves grabbed his jacket and waved his wand in the direction of his shutters to latch them shut. Then, more swiftly than any mere human had hope of being, he apparated to MACUSA's headquarters.

He made for Abernathy's desk first, as the most senior of his aurors on duty at this hour. With some effort, he kept himself from moving with vampiric speed; it was better to let his aurors see him coming.

To Abernathy's credit, he managed to push himself away from his desk and stand without knocking anything over or stammering as he said, "Mister Graves, sir. You're back early."

Graves ignored the statement of the obvious. "Listen very closely: we may be on the brink of a catastrophic event which is on the same order of magnitude as an unbridled obscurus. I need you to assemble a team for me and meet me in my office in twenty minutes."

Abernathy stared at him, gobsmacked, for a moment too long. Gods, if the man hadn't proven himself a sharp duelist and good with illusion charms, Graves would have demoted him to paperwork duty just because of his nerves. He cleared his throat, which had the desired effect of galvanizing Abernathy into motion. "Yessir! On it!"

His subordinate having been alerted, he had no more need to move at human speeds. He hurried to his office more quickly than any of his aurors would be able to track, and spent the twenty minutes he'd given himself assembling his case.

With a flick of his wand, copies of the files arranged themselves mid-air, oriented by infraction, location, and when they had come to Grindelwald's attention while he had been impersonating Graves. He drew arcs of light in the air between the floating papers to connect the dots for his audience, and he managed to put the final touches on the web just before his door swung open.

Graves didn't need to be facing them as they filed in to know what sort of a team Abernathy had assembled for him. Coronado and Mallory weren't a surprise; the both of them and Abernathy had been thick as thieves since they'd been junior aurors. Goldstein, though, _that_ was a shock. It spoke volumes about how seriously Abernathy was taking the situation that he would wake her up, given how much he resented her reinstatement and how much she resented his treatment of her during Grindelwald's administration.

All in all, Abernathy had assembled a serviceable team.

Graves turned to face them, slipping his wand into his pocket. Mallory had been on duty with Abernathy, so she was primly dressed and wore her regulation leather duster. Coronado and Goldstein had both apparated in hastily donned clothing from the day before, though Coronado seemed a bit more put together than his other compatriot. Everyone wore a grim expression. Good. It meant they understood the gravity of the situation.

"Thank you all for your presence and punctuality," Graves drawled. "It seems that we have a bit of an emergency." He sketched a wide gesture with one arm that encompassed all of the floating papers. "Tell me, ladies and gentlemen, what do you see?"

Coronado snorted. "A damn sorry reason to drag a man out of bed." Mallory stifled a snicker behind one hand.

Graves scowled. He could do with less of Coronado's attitude, but he let it go for the moment. "Look harder."

He studied his aurors' faces as they, in turn, studied what he'd laid out for them. There wasn't an auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that he hadn't hand-selected. None of them were stupid.

Understanding dawned on Goldstein's face first (she was like an open book, would never succeed at undercover work), but he suspected that Mallory had been a little quicker on the uptake. Abernathy's eyes widened, and then, finally, Coronado's lips turned down in a frown.

"Sir." Abernathy shifted from foot to foot. That tic usually meant he was holding on to a question he didn't want to ask.

Coronado saved him the trouble. "We know the who and the what, but do we know the when or the where? 'Cause from where I'm standing, those are some pretty big blanks in this happy little picture you've drawn. Sir."

Mallory shook her head. "No, see, we got a good guess to the where. He was clever about it, but all these guys over here and over here?" She gestured with her wand to circle two sets of files in blue light. "I helped bust half of 'em. They work outta the west side but I heard some of 'em got seen slinking around some docks on the Hudson. I'd lay money that that's our where."

"Very good," Graves said, finding it in himself to be pleased despite the situation. She'd picked up on something he hadn't seen.

"But we'd still need to narrow it down," Abernathy protested. "And what about the when?"

Goldstein finally spoke. "I've got a guess. Grindelwald's extradition is in three days. Once he gets on that boat, that whole area gets burned to ash."

"Worse," said Coronado. "It's no good to Grindelwald's cause if it can't be pinned on magic. Those stolen goods… I'd lay money that they're going to use them for something…" He flapped his hand in the air as if to catch the words. "Transfiguration. On a massive scale."

"Good eye, Coronado. I doubt we have as long as Goldstein suggests," Graves said. "We've always suspected that Grindelwald has a way to get communications out of his holding cell. Whether it's a mole or some other means, it doesn't matter. We have to operate on the assumption that we're almost out of time."

"Well, boss, what now?" Coronado asked, pushing one hand through his hair in a motion that Graves recognized as a particularly egregious tell. He'd likely keep doing it until they left the building.

"Wish we still had Peter, God rest 'im," Mallory muttered, crossing herself and bowing her head. "Having the Hound woulda been real nice right about now."

The words hit Graves harder than any physical blow he'd taken. It had been decades since his body could feel nausea, but his mind provided a convenient memory. He closed his eyes against it.

Peter's face stared up at him, slack-jawed, eyes wide with betrayal. He had no throat, just a mess of flesh that had been shredded. Peter's lips twitched as if to say something, then stilled. Something hot and wet and thick dripped off Graves's chin.

He heard himself (no, _him_ ) sigh. "Such a waste. Are you prepared to pay this price until I get what I came for, Percy?"

 _No, no, no, no, no—_

Goldstein's voice pulled him back from the precipice. "Mister Graves?"

"Unfortunately, we will have to make do without the services of Mister Galen," Graves ground out. Gods, he could still feel the heat of the blood on his lips, in his throat. Lord and Lady. "We'll work with what we have. Coronado, Goldstein, get your regulation leathers and meet Abernathy, Mallory, and myself in the atrium."

* * *

After a brief disagreement—Goldstein and Abernathy against; Coronado, Mallory, and Graves for—they decided to split up. There was safety in numbers, and the circumstances _were_ dangerous, but the dire situation called for the speed of searching separate areas individually. As a concession, Graves sent Goldstein to fetch a handful of canary chits: small tokens painted like yellow birds that were charmed to call out the bearer's location if the token were damaged. It wasn't much, but with any luck, they would go unused.

Graves suspected they would not be lucky. The grim set of his team's faces told him they did not disagree.

He took a moment to mark out which areas each of his team members would be searching, then distributed the chits. "You know what to do," he said. "Good luck."

One by one, they apparated away with Graves the last to go.

He'd assigned himself the largest area given his supernatural speed, but even this did not save him from two hours of fruitless searching. It would not do to give in to the mounting sense of despair, but the night dragged on and sunrise loomed closer and the urge to engage in useless casual destruction grew.

His senses were overtaxed and he felt the weight of the sun (only an hour or so away from rising, by his estimation) in the way the space behind his eyes itched. He'd heard nothing from his team, which could only mean that their searches had turned up just as much as his.

Something snagged his attention as he drew close to a quiet warehouse near the far end of his assigned area. At first he thought he imagined it, but no, there it was again. A shiver of magic ran down his spine. Someone had erected an anti-apparition field over this plain no-maj building.

Graves held his wand at the ready as he approached.

Inside the field, everything was soaked in stray magic. Any doubts that he'd found the right place were dispelled. All that remained was locating whatever Grindelwald's people had cobbled together out of the stolen goods.

He strained his hearing, listening for signs of life, and he was not disappointed. He heard several heartbeats, the shuffling of feet on concrete. The walls did little to muffle them, and it was trivial to find a window far away from them to force open and climb through.

From there, his search did not take long.

He didn't know what he was looking at, not exactly. A notice-me-not charm hung in the air, twisting it like heat rising off the streets in summer. It wasn't the work of a single powerful wizard, rather the efforts of a handful of undisciplined people trying to stitch their magics together. Graves could cut through it with a flick of his wand, he was sure. But there were at least six separate heartbeats in this building. As soon as he dispelled it, they would be on him.

His fingers ran over the canary chit in his pocket while he weighed his options. If he'd had the foresight to take some blood, Grindelwald's agents here wouldn't have been a problem. Whatever the device was, it oozed enough magical energy to make Graves's teeth ache. He discarded the idea of simply waiting for backup. The pulse of power beneath the notice-me-not charm had grown steadily even in the few moments he'd been gripped by indecision.

No, he had to take care of this. Now.

One hand holding his wand at the ready, he brought the canary chit out of his pocket and let it drop to the dusty floor. He waved his wand in a broad stroke and muttered under his breath, " _Finite incantatum._ " As his magic shredded the offending charm, he crushed the canary chit under the heel of his boot.

The token under his boot let out a banshee-like shriek before the enchantment took from and swirled up into the air. With any luck (hah!), at least Goldstein or Mallory would find him soon. The din of the canary chit's magic overwhelmed Graves's hearing, but there was no possible way that the other six occupants weren't on their way. He had less than a minute. If that.

The magic of the revealed device hummed high and loud as if in response to the canary enchantment's screeching. Even without the charm hiding it, Graves still had trouble keeping his gaze from sliding off of it. His bones vibrated in its presence as if it were reaching out to draw him in by his marrow.

His hand rose in a vague, sluggish gesture as he invoked a shielding charm. The air shimmered white for a moment, then faded as the object sucked the magic in. The hum rose in pitch again. It nearly drowned out the calamitous footsteps running down the rickety staircase.

Graves turned to face the approaching wizards, wand held at the ready. The skin on his back crawled with the electric charge of the device. Facing away from it felt infinitely more dangerous than not confronting Grindelwald's agents, but what choice did he have?

He'd barely finished pivoting toward the five wizards (three women, two men; damn, where did the sixth one go?) before the first crackling hex flew toward him. Graves deflected it with a counterspell, sending it careening off toward the far wall. Before it struck, the hex curved around and streaked back behind Graves. Heat and light rushed over him like some sort of magical blow-back. Damn. Whatever was happening was not good.

A jinx whizzed past his head, dragged into the strange object by its magnetic pull. The hum climbed in pitch to a wail. One of the wizards shouted. Behind her, Tina Goldstein swirled into being with her wand and chin both held high.

There was no point in talking, he doubted his voice would carry even if he could shout over the calamitous screaming of the device. Instead he cast a half-hearted _protego_ to show her what happened to spellwork here. The strands of the glimmering shield flowed over him, and he deflected another curse that followed the shield charm into the device.

Goldstein's eyes widened and she nodded.

The people standing between her and Graves had yet to notice the other auror behind them. And Graves intended to keep it that way. He took two steps forward—hard-earned with the device at his back trying to pull him in—and hurled a hastily muttered _expelliarmus_ at the woman directly in front of Goldstein. His aim was true, but the spell never landed. It turned back on him just short of the woman's chest, and only his vampiric reflexes allowed him to parry the spell with his wand before he lost it.

Everything exploded into flashes of color and searing magic. Seizing on the opportunity to attack without fear of retaliation, all five of Grindelwald's agents flung hexes at him. He turned them all aside, sending sparks of energy flying as some of them bounced off the floor but most were eaten by the device.

Using the fight to her advantage (gods bless Goldstein for being able to think on her feet), Goldstein aimed a stunning spell at the farthest witch from her. The spell hit its mark and the woman dropped to the ground. The clatter of her wand was overshadowed by the hisses and pops of the fight and the growing whine of the device. Goldstein stunned two more of them before the remaining two caught on.

The last wizard and witch standing both turned on Goldstein, the magnetic draw of the device rendering their wand-hands just a little too slow. She stunned them both before either of them had the chance to utter so much as a jinx.

"Good work, Goldstein!" Graves shouted over the din. The artifact didn't seem to take his words, at least. "We need to contain this before it does whatever they made it to do!"

"What about the others?" she called as she picked her way over the unmoving bodies of their erstwhile attackers. "This is big. Can we do it with just the two of us?"

"You can use your canary but we don't have time to wait."

Goldstein nodded, dropped her chit on the ground, and crushed it under her boot. The enchantment triggered, the magic screamed in the air and then died as the device consumed it. If the rest of the team had not heard Graves's canary, as seemed likely, he and Goldstein were on their own.

He reached out and offered her a hand once she was close enough. The pull of the device rattled his bones, but Goldstein's cool, sure grip and steady pulse helped ground him. Something in it must have been responding to his vampiric nature, rather than simply his human magic. He tugged Goldstein to his side and turned to face the artifact.

It defied observation. Based on the case files he'd read, he had a good idea of the components that went into it, but his eyes couldn't settle on any one thing. It shed his gaze like water rolling off a duck's back. He raised his wand, and Goldstein followed suit. "Standard shield charms won't work," he said.

"Can we disrupt it so we can put up a shield? Then move it somewhere safe?"

He didn't bother telling her that it was pointless to ask. She knew, just as Graves did, that their only option was to try and hope they weren't wrong. Or too late. He nodded and raised his wand, a motion which she mirrored.

" _Divellius,_ " Graves intoned. The tip of his wand sparked and the threads of magic wrapped themselves around the device. The humming dropped in pitch. Some of the object's outline solidified in his view, though he still couldn't make out any details.

At his side, Goldstein wove a shimmering net of shielding spells and cast it over the artifact. The golden glow bowed inward, then snapped into place. The humming dropped to an almost imperceptible level. Sweat prickled on Goldstein's brow, and her wand hand shook with the strain, but her containment held. "I might need some help moving this, sir," she said with a trembling voice.

A disarming spell whizzed through the air, and it was only by the barest margin that Graves managed to put himself between it and Goldstein. He deflected it with a fluid swish of his wand, and it bounced harmlessly off the far wall. Graves scanned the room and he allowed himself a moment to swear at his own negligence; Goldstein had dispatched five of Grindelwald's agents. Graves had identified six heartbeats in the warehouse.

The sixth agent, a young witch with a round, open face and hatred burning in her eyes, leveled her wand at Goldstein. "We will live in the shadows no more!" she hissed. She raised her wand, noxious green glow collecting at its tip like poison. " _Avada—_ "

Graves didn't wait for her to finish the spell. He threw himself at Goldstein's side, tackling her to the concrete floor before the killing curse could find its mark. She let out a startled grunt, tried instinctively to fight Graves's hold on her, but she lost her grip on the containment spell.

The object shrieked as it ate the remains of Goldstein's handiwork, ate the witch's killing curse, ate the witch's high, triumphant laughter. "We will live in the shadows no more!" she screamed again before flinging herself bodily onto the artifact.

Time seemed to slow, as it often did when staring down near-certain death. Graves saw the witch crumple, her body twisted at odd angles as the object devoured her. Everything rose to a fever pitch and the object began to spit splinters of magic. Whatever it was meant to do, it was about to do it.

He muttered a prayer to the Lord and Lady; he'd never excelled in protective magic, not the way Goldstein had. But he had no choice now but to try. He twisted to cast a protective net like the one Goldstein had made, but his work wasn't as sure. It pinched and bent in places where the object tried to consume it, and bowed outward where shards of raw energy bounced against it. He felt the strain down to his marrow. Gods, grant him the strength…

Underneath him, Goldstein slithered to where she could aim her wand at the protections Graves had woven. A thread of silver shot out, joined the magic that Graves had already lain, and the barrier solidified. It stretched and rippled, but it did not shatter.

Goldstein shook hard enough with the effort that she fairly vibrated. "What… what do we—"

Everything exploded. The barrier expanded to contain what it could; raw magic tore at the spell they'd cobbled together, burned it out by inches. By the time the shield fell, much of the force had been contained, but there was still more magic left to rip through its surroundings. Graves dropped to cover as much of Goldstein's smaller frame as he could while he said another prayer. _Let us have done enough._

The wild energy tore through the warehouse, scorching everything it touched. Graves tried in vain to erect a shield around himself and Goldstein, prayed that it was enough to at least ensure Goldstein's survival. In his last moment of consciousness, he hoped against hope that Credence would not be forced to bury the both of them.

* * *

 **Interlude**

Tina came to with a jerk and had to take a moment to let the spots in her vision and the ringing in her ears subside. Heat rolled over her, and she caught the smell of charred flesh. Mercy Lewis, this was not good. Someone's body slumped atop her, unmoving, not breathing. Oh no… oh _no_.

She pushed herself up before her vision fully cleared and shimmied out from under the dead weight. The body on top of her groaned. _Mister Graves!_

When her vision finally cleared, she sat dumbstruck for a moment. The spots in her vision weren't entirely illusory: motes of light like embers drifted to and fro, and a fine layer of sparkling dust coated almost everything in the room. Still, it wasn't enough to cover the scorch marks, especially at the epicenter, where the magical bomb had once sat. Around the center of the blast, the concrete of the floor had bubbled up, twisted, and formed shapes like grasping hands.

A thin line of the glowing dust surrounded the central blast site—the remains of the shield that she and Graves had thrown up, no doubt—beyond which the floor seemed largely untouched.

Her gaze swept over the rest of the room. She'd seen the stacks of crates, but most of them were gone, likely dispersed into dust. Some of them had shattered and showered splinters over the farther corners of the room. The five goons she'd incapacitated…

Tina's stomach twisted. Even with most of its power dampened, the bomb had made horrific work of the men and women she'd laid low. Their limbs spiraled around each other, bones jutted from places that no bone should have been. The flesh melted and pooled and reformed and—

She tore her gaze away and appraised Mister Graves. He'd taken the brunt of the blast, leaving his backside scorched almost beyond recognition. A huge shard of wood had embedded itself into the flesh of his right side, and another piece of shrapnel had grazed his scalp.

With shaking hands, Tina grasped the wooden spike. _Please don't be ash,_ she thought as she yanked it free. Mister Graves made a sound somewhere between a human groan and a monstrous snarl, but he did not move. Tina tossed the wood aside. "Mister Graves, speak to me, please."

He didn't respond. Damn it all!

Tina's voice quavered almost as badly as her hands as she raised her wand. " _Expecto patronum!_ " Her patronus, a sleek, silvery mongoose, sprang from the tip of her wand and wound around her waist. "Find Abernathy," she told it. "Or Mallory, or Coronado. I don't care. Someone needs to clean this up. I've got to get Mister Graves help."

Silent as a whisper, her patronus leapt through the air and slithered out one of the broken windows into the night. With any luck, one of the others would be here soon. Hopefully. Damn it all.

She bent down and got a good grip on Mister Graves. "I'm so sorry, sir," she said as she hoisted him up and took his weight across her shoulders. Another pained noise rumbled in his chest, and she winced. "Sorry, sorry, just hang on, sir. I'm going to get you somewhere safe, just hang on."

In a swirl of magic, Tina apparated them both out of the ruins of the warehouse.

* * *

"We need a healer!" Tina shouted at the top of her lungs as soon as she appeared in the infirmary in the basement of the Woolworth building. Her legs gave out underneath her, and she dropped to her knees hard enough that she knew they would be bruised. It took every bit of physical strength she had to keep from dropping Mister Graves on his head. "Help!"

Two junior healers appeared at her side, taking Mister Graves between them. "Tell us what happened," one of them said. The other followed up with, "When was the last time he had blood?"

"I don't know when he had blood last," Tina said. Then she sketched out the basics of what had happened. "He hasn't been conscious this entire time," she added.

"Not good," one of the young healers said. "We'll need to get him to containment."

"Right, I'll summon Healer Baxter," the other said before peeling off and dashing down a side corridor.

Feeling cut adrift, Tina followed after the junior healer carrying Mister Graves. The healer laid him out on a stretcher, then cast a levitation charm over it so that it hovered along obediently at waist-height.

"Is he going to be okay?" Tina asked just to have something to fill the silence.

"I really can't say. Healer Baxter would know better."

They hustled along one of the sterile white hallways in silence, striding past empty room after empty room—a good sign that none of the other aurors had shown up bleeding. At least, not yet. Shuddering, Tina quickened her pace so she could walk even with Mister Graves's head. His face was paler than normal and smeared with the strange dust from the explosion and some of his own blood. Oh, what in Deliverance Day was she going to tell Credence if she'd gotten Mister Graves killed?

"You've got to hang on," she whispered to him. "You've got to."

Healer Baxter met them at the door to one of the rooms, a scowl on his face. He shooed both Tina and his junior healer out of his way as he looked over Mister Graves. "You have to understand that there isn't much we can do," he told Tina without looking up from his work. "Humans, those I can fix. Break a bone, cut your skin, we can stitch that right back up. But vampires… No one's yet found the trick to do much for them." He shook his head. "The best we can do is make him comfortable. Hope he hasn't taken too much damage to heal himself. Notify his next of kin."

"There's got to be _something_ we can do!"

Healer Baxter just shook his head. "The only thing that can heal a vampire is blood, Auror Goldstein. If you want to be kind, you'll contact his next of kin so they can make arrangements if the worst comes to pass. And maybe let one of my youngsters look you over, once that's done. You look like hell."

"Thanks for that," she grumbled. "I'll take that under advisement."

He shrugged. "Of course."

If he had anything else to say to her, it was lost as she dashed back the way she'd come. Once she left the halls of the infirmary proper—and the anti-apparition wards—she raised her wand and disappeared.

When she re-appeared in the sitting room of her apartment, Queenie and Credence both sat in the dining room, two mugs standing forgotten on the table in front of them. "See?" Queenie said with a forced kind of cheer, "she's already—" Her statement died as she caught the edges of the whirlwind spinning around in Tina's head. "Oh. Oh, no."

Queenie pushed her chair back and stood so quickly it would have toppled over if Tina hadn't caught it with an off-hand flick of her wand. Credence seemed fit to jump out of his skin at the sudden burst of activity, and it wasn't helped by Queenie tugging on his arm until he stood up, too. "Go on, go. Go with Tina," she urged.

"What?" Credence stumbled as Queenie nudged him in Tina's direction.

"It's Mister Graves," Tina said. "He's… Well, it's…"

All the blood left Credence's face. "Tell me."


	5. Chapter 5

The place Tina brought Credence was similar to the one where he'd stayed when MACUSA had first picked him up, but it was subtly different. The walls here were white, instead of dark gray, and though the place fairly vibrated with magic, it wasn't the sort that tended to set his teeth on edge. Still, he couldn't help but feel unease coil in his stomach. It was so quiet. So barren.

They strode down a lengthy corridor that was lit every few feet by a glaringly white globe of light that hovered near the ceiling. In front of him, Tina walked with enough purpose that her singed leather coat flapped behind her and trailed strange shadows on the hard stone floor. He matched her stride easily enough, but it was difficult not to give her wide berth when she clutched her wand like a knife in one balled-up fist. They passed like a storm, Credence thought, with something like thunder in his heart and something like lightning in Tina's eyes. May the Lord have mercy on whomever crossed their paths.

The "whomever," it turned out, was a stooped older gentleman with a smartly trimmed beard, piercing brown eyes, and liver spots on his forehead. He stood near a featureless door with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a white robe with a caduceus embroidered over his heart. Credence supposed he must be a doctor.

"Auror Goldstein," the man said by way of greeting. He cocked his head in Credence's direction. "Is this his… next of kin?"

"This is Credence," Tina said. "He's the ward of Mister Graves."

The man's expression went very solemn as he nodded. "I'm sorry, son. We've done what we can, but I'm afraid he may be too far gone. The only thing we can do now is wait."

"What do you mean?" Credence blurted out. "He's. He's a vampire. All he needs is a little blood, right?"

"If these were normal injuries, perhaps," the gentleman with the sad brown eyes. "Or if they weren't so grievous. He's close to a blood frenzy. We can't risk letting anyone close to him because they won't survive."

The statement hung in the air between the three of them, heavy and final in a way that Credence could not bear. Tina's hand came to rest on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. A cold certainty coalesced where his unease had started to take root. "Let me in there," he said. "I can. I can help him. I can give him some of my blood and keep him from hurting me."

The man's brows shot up. "Son, when I started practicing the healing arts, I took an oath to do no harm. Letting you into that room when he's on the brink like this? That'd be doing some harm to put it lightly. I can't let you do something so crazy."

"It's not crazy," Credence said. "I'm…" _Not human. A monster. Strong enough._

None of the words came out. Instead, he turned to Tina and fixed her with what he hoped was an obstinate stare. "I can help him, Tina. I know it. You didn't bring me here just to sit by while I could help. Let me do this." He poured all of his certainty, all of his need to help, all of his wanting into his words. Willed Tina to see his strength that he'd built. To see he was not weak.

She returned his gaze, unflinching, and his heart tripped over itself. _Please, please_ , he thought, _please, don't._ He kept his hands at his sides, refused to fidget or fiddle with his shirt cuffs. His breath lingered, caught by the lump in his throat. _Please._

The moment stretched, then broke as Tina nodded once. "You're right," she said. Credence sucked in another breath, letting his fingers find the loose thread on his sleeve that he'd never gotten around to fixing. Tina turned to the older gentleman standing by the cell door. "Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but I promise you: this young man is Mister Graves's best hope at survival."

The doctor—no, they were called mediwizards—on duty scowled and pushed his half-moon spectacles up his beakish nose. "This is highly inadvisable. If he's not already in a blood frenzy, he will be as soon as he scents living human flesh. He's more feral animal than man."

"I'm not human," Credence stated. His voice didn't shake, which was a small miracle he made note to thank God for later. Once… once he was home. Once Graves was safe. "I can…" He halted, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he settled on, "I can keep him from hurting himself. Or me."

"It's our only shot at stabilizing Mister Graves," Tina said, resting one hand on Credence's shoulder in solidarity. "You said it yourself, if he doesn't get fed soon, he might not make it." The older gentleman looked like he was about to protest, but Tina cut him off. "Listen, with Mister Graves incapacitated, you're currently speaking to the acting Director of Magical Law Enforcement—" Credence tried not to choke on his own tongue at the bald-faced lie, managed to keep silent somehow, "—and I am ordering you to let Credence into that room."

The mediwizard frowned, but he made no more motion to object. "Of course, ma'am." With a flourish of his wand, the heavy locks that kept the door barred undid themselves before Credence's eyes. Even in such a dire situation, he still couldn't help but be a little awed by magic being worked around him.

"I can't guarantee your safety, son," the mediwizard said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, sir," Credence said. He didn't wait for the gentleman to respond, just shoved the cell door open far enough to slip inside before he lost his nerve. The sound of it clanging shut behind him lent an unsettling finality to the situation. Whatever happened, he knew in his bones that they were either both getting out alive, or neither of them were.

The room was dark, and it took a moment for Credence's eyes to adjust to the dimness. His eyes skimmed over the outline of a chair, an end table, a cot. There were no windows, no other doors but the one at his back, and the only wan light came from a sconce mounted high on the wall above the end table. It shed a ghostly, silver glow like that of the moon through fog. It was barely enough for him to see Graves: a disheveled, unmoving shadow huddled in the opposite corner of the room.

He crept forward, one hand outstretched, eyes focused on Graves's face. "It's me. Credence. I've come to help." Graves made no noise, no move to come closer, but he didn't seem interested in fleeing, either.

Credence took that as a good sign. "Mister Graves?" He inched closer, heart pounding in his ears. Every fiber of his being vibrated with his fear, with his worry. What if he was too late? What if Graves was too far gone? What if—

In his moment of distraction, Graves struck. One second, Credence was approaching him like he were a wounded animal. The next, Graves had him pinned to the wall next to the bed. Credence hit the wall with enough force to knock his breath out of him with a startled huff, but not enough force to _hurt._

Graves kept his grip firm, but—again—not so firm as to hurt. He favored Credence with a look that was appraising. Predatory. But he didn't move.

Fingers trembling, Credence raised his hand to touch Graves's cheek. The skin was so cold against his knuckles that he shivered. "Mister Graves?"

As if time had slowed down, Graves turned his head until his nose brushed against Credence's wrist. He didn't _need_ to breathe, Credence knew, but he felt a stir of air as Graves breathed in, then out. Taking in his scent, he realized. _Deciding if I smell good enough to be eaten?_ They'd said that he was feral, that he would attack anyone that entered his cell, that he would potentially kill them.

And yet, here he was, nearly nuzzling Credence's wrist like a cat. A part of him wondered what that meant. A part of him suspected he already knew.

He let out a shuddering breath. "Mister Graves." He uncurled his fingers and laid his palm flat against Graves's cheek. "I'm here," he added, throat feeling suddenly dry. "I've got you." The only response he received was a rumble deep in Graves's chest, followed by the man—no, the _vampire_ —releasing his arms and pulling him closer.

This close, Credence could feel the vibrations of the sound. It wasn't quite a growl, but it was close. He could also smell the metallic tang of the blood that must surely have soaked through Graves's clothes. How much belonged to him and how much belonged to someone else, Credence didn't know. Didn't want an answer.

He saw the way that Graves's eyes shone in the dark; the glint wasn't predatory at all, now. There was pain in them, and a wildness. But underneath it all, the best word to describe the look on Graves's face was _protective_. He looked at Credence as if he were something precious. Tina's words drifted back to him: _He would never be disgusted by you. Anyone with eyes can see that._ But they had been hard to believe when Graves had turned him away.

It was hard to argue now. The doctor—mediwizard—had emphasized how dangerous Graves would be, but his first instinct even in this state wasn't to harm Credence at all. Of course, that made Credence's mission a little more difficult.

"Mister Graves," he repeated, "You have to feed. I'm here to help you. I won't let you hurt me. Just…" His words petered out. Graves did not appear to be listening. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his head against Credence's shoulder as if he were winded.

This… This was a problem. Credence let his fingers find the back of Graves's skull and run over the short-clipped hair there. Some of it was tacky with a substance Credence could probably guess but still didn't want to name. Graves made a noise like a sigh.

Credence used his free hand to fumble with the top two buttons of his shirt until, finally, they came undone. "Mister Graves, please." He tugged his collar open to expose the area Graves had fed from before. "Mister Graves." Still no response.

Finally, Credence turned to rest his lips next to Graves's ear. He took in another shaky breath. It felt like he was about to cross a line, break some taboo that somehow felt so much larger than everything else that had brought him to this point. The point of no return. Voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, Credence murmured, "Percival. Please."

The response was immediate. Graves—Percival—snapped to attention, his eerie gaze fixing on Credence's face. He may not have been fully in control of his faculties, but Credence knew without a doubt that he was finally _listening._ The weight of his regard was almost too much, but Credence reminded himself, _you asked for this._

Credence tilted his head to one side. Exposed the long line of his neck. Lifted his brows in what he hoped was an inviting way. Willed with every ounce of himself that Percival would understand and accept his offer.

Slowly, deliberately, as if drawn by an unseen magnetic force, Percival lowered his head to Credence's throat. When Percival's lips met skin, there was no hint of the savagery the mediwizard had promised, only gentle caution. Credence held his breath, held himself still, held tight to the monster that surged up at Percival's touch. An eternity passed. Everything was still. Everything was silent save for the frantic thudding of Credence's heart.

Then a growl, too urgent and possessive to be put into words, and Percival's fangs slid into the flesh of Credence's neck as smoothly and sweetly as if they'd been there all along. Credence made a hiccuping noise between a gasp and a sigh, and his knees buckled as the pleasure rolled over him like warm fog. He made a weak attempt to catch hold of Percival's tattered waistcoat before he dropped to the floor, but his fingers found only air.

His feet lifted off the ground. Strong arms hauled him up, held him flush against Percival's chest while Percival's mouth worked at the punctures on his neck. The world glazed over, painted in soft grays and muted blues, and then Credence realized they were on the cot with his legs slung to either side of Percival's hips and Percival's hands pulling him so, so close. Credence's fingers finally found purchase near Percival's waist, and he shoved aside the waistcoat in favor of clutching at the shirt underneath. Percival's hands responded in kind. One found its way into Credence's hair and curled into it, not quite tugging but very near. The other held him fast at the small of his back with one thumb hooked in the waistband of his trousers.

His heart pounded, his breath came in shallow gasps that kept time with his pulse. Warm, syrupy pleasure washed through his head, lessened the grip he held on himself even as it tightened his grip on Percival.

He shuddered, and, as if in response, Percival pulled away from his neck long enough to fit Credence even more tightly against himself before bending down to slide his fangs into his sensitive flesh again, more fervent, less gently this time. The pleasure seared through Credence like lightning, tore an almost animal sound from his throat. He felt himself blur as his obscurus rose to meet Percival's fervor.

The edges of Credence's vision gave themselves to dark tendrils of smoke, which curved toward Percival as inevitably as a flower curves toward the sun. He didn't feel it, exactly, not the way he felt his limbs, but he could _sense_ things through the smoke. As more of him bled off into inky wisps, he found he could explore every inch of Percival unimpeded. If the man noticed the way the darkness curled around him, he was too preoccupied with Credence's throat to care.

The obscurus didn't dampen the pleasure of Percival's bite, but it gave a little distance. Instead of being subsumed in it, Credence could sink into it and then move back to take in what his other senses now told him. Through his extended self, he took the measure of the damage that Percival had weathered: the worst was the deep puncture on his right side, gaping but oddly bloodless; the skin on his back was burned beyond recognition, though Credence couldn't tell how deep the damage went; his scalp had split open near the base of his skull, and this wound still oozed a little tacky blood as dark as Credence's own.

Percival drew back, letting the obscurus caress his face, his hair, down his neck. Without looking, Credence knew his blood, thick and black like his obscurus, would be smeared on Percival's chin. At some distance, he knew he was lightheaded. Much more blood lost and he might be in danger. But his gentle exploration told him that Percival wasn't quite out of the woods. His obscurus could sense the flesh knitting itself together using the power from Credence's blood. Knew that there was still so much more work needed below the surface.

Percival sank his fangs in again with a fierce, triumphant snarl that sent ripples of ecstasy through Credence and his obscurus. The smoke shivered as if disturbed by a breeze before coming back to itself and wrapping tighter around Percival in a mirror of the way he'd pulled Credence close not long before.

There would be no way for Credence to do anything if he let Percival take too much of his blood. "Percival," he managed to say, voice cracking on the last syllable.

The response was slow, but Percival eventually pulled away a final time. The hand holding Credence's head went to Percival's chin. He wiped away the blood and licked it off his fingers with an almost distracted air. As if it were just an absent motion while he waited to see what Credence would ask of him next.

What _would_ Credence ask of him? The distance that the obscurus provided him may have shielded him from the worst of the toll so much blood loss had, but it did nothing to clear his head. He was, in many ways, almost as much a creature of instinct as Percival seemed to be.

Credence's hands drifted up and skimmed over Percival's sides until his fingers—his human, physical fingers—found where the edges of Percival's wounds should be. He hesitated, caught between two moments. Two courses of action: disengage, get the mediwizard to let him out of the cell, wait to see if it was enough; or see this impulse through, wherever it might lead.

It was foolish to think there was a choice. _Either we both get out of this alive, or neither of us do._ He breathed in, closed his eyes, and let go.

His fingers dissolved as he surrendered this part of his physical form to the obscurus's magic. It flowed over Percival's wounds again, but this time its intent was far less innocent than mere exploration. The darkness pooled, coagulated, coated, seeped. He felt Percival shudder. Heard himself make soothing noises—"Shh, it's all right, I've got you…"—until the body underneath him stilled. Credence's darkness seethed and bubbled and roiled, and he waited for some sign.

When his obscurus's magic— _his_ magic—sparked, it nearly sent Credence reeling. Flecks of red light like fire and brimstone swam across his vision, though whether they were just an illusion or actually floating within his own smoke, he could not tell. He remembered to breathe, which made weathering the next surge of power easier. The red lights like embers were definitely not just artefacts in his vision. They burned in time with his heartbeat. His magic ebbed and flowed and then caught fire as it latched on to Percival's own. Like called to like. Whatever made Percival a vampire recognized Credence's obscurus as its kin and it drank greedily from that red-flecked darkness.

It was like when Percival fed on him, but purer without something so inelegant as flesh getting in the way. There was no distance from this, no filter. It took every ounce of Credence's self-control to hold himself in his own skin. But unlike his blood, the well of his magic was deep. He knew there was no chance of Percival draining it dry. So he slumped forward, rested his forehead on Percival's collarbone, and let him have his fill.

He came back to himself some time later, just a young man with plain flesh. Percival had tugged Credence's collar aside and was licking the wounds that he'd left on Credence's neck to make sure they were closed. Credence shivered. Wondered if his blood had stained his shirt. Wondered how awful they looked. Realized that he didn't care. He let his fingers explore where Percival had been injured and felt relief when he encountered nothing but smooth, cool skin. He sighed, half in relief and half in exhaustion. "You're safe now," Credence whispered into the fabric of Percival's shirt.

Percival didn't vocalize any sort of response, but he shifted his hold on Credence so that he cradled him close to his chest. As if he were assuring Credence of the same thing. Perhaps the feral edge hadn't worn off enough for Percival to form words, but he could still make himself plain in this way.

Chilly but content, Credence drifted off in Percival's arms.


	6. Chapter 6

Graves realized several things as his awareness returned to him in bits and pieces. He was not well and truly dead, to start. He was not in the warehouse they'd raided (was, in fact, in one of the containment cells in the MACUSA infirmary). He was curled on his side atop a most uncomfortable cot. He felt well and truly sated for the first time since he'd been recovered. His arms were wrapped around someone warm and alive (and precious, so precious, _protect him_ ), and whose living spark sang so sweetly along every nerve in his body.

The person in his arms moved in his sleep and tucked his head under Graves's chin. Graves didn't need to glance down to know whom he held; he would recognize the shape of Credence, the weight of him, even on death's door. The temptation to indulge himself loomed too great to resist. Graves tilted his head and laid a gentle kiss on Credence's hair.

That, it seemed, was enough to break the spell that surely must have held them. Credence mumbled something vague into Graves's shirt before pushing himself up on one elbow. His features were drawn, his eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his neck… The only thing that kept Graves from recoiling at the sight of the mottled, ugly mess of bruises and the bloodstains on his shirt was the fact that he still had an arm looped over Credence's waist.

"Percival?" Credence slurred, not quite free of sleep's grasp. "Are… are you…?" He left the question dangling as if he weren't quite sure what he wondered if Graves was.

"I'm…" He paused, not sure himself what he was. His throat felt raspy and his voice sounded disused to his own ears. "I'm here, my boy." He was other things, too, but the simplest answer would have to do.

A smile like the dawn broke over Credence's features. It was almost too bright for Graves to bear, but he would be damned if he tore his gaze away. Credence threw the arm not supporting his weight around Graves's neck and dragged him into an awkward one-armed hug. "I was so worried," he said. "Don't. Don't ever do that again, all right?"

Something clenched in Graves's chest. Gods above, what had he done? He cast his mind back through the events of the previous night, searching for any hint of what may have happened… after. But there was nothing beyond a vague memory of velvety darkness and the taste of blood. Credence's blood. Lord and Lady.

Graves shook his head, though whether to clear it or refute what he suspected, he did not know. "I don't remember much of anything. I don't know what I did."

The smile like sunshine faded. "You nearly died. They said. They said you wouldn't make it through if you didn't feed." He shuddered. "Tina brought me here because she thought… She thought I should be here if… And I realized that I could help." Graves could see the way that he struggled to put words around his thoughts. His unbeating heart ached in sympathy.

Finally, Credence closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm not human, Mister Graves. I'm a monster. Like you. And I know that because I gave you some of my magic and that's how we're both here."

"You're not a monster," Graves said with sudden ferocity. "You might not be human, but you could never be a monster."

Credence's smile was slow in coming, and it didn't make it all the way to his eyes. "That's very kind of you to say, Mister Graves. But I think you're forgetting who almost tore down half of New York." He shook his head. "You didn't hurt me, you know. The doctor said you were dangerous. He said you'd attack anyone who came in here, but you didn't even want to bite me at first."

Graves stared at him with his thoughts derailed by the revelation. _Oh._

The boy (young man) pushed himself upright, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, wobbled for a moment as if his legs were unsure if they could hold his weight. One hand gripped the edge of the cot to steady himself. "I'll… let them know. That you're all right now." The words came out a hoarse, tenuous whisper.

 _There are other ways to hurt someone._ And Graves found himself incapable of hurting Credence, not like this. He circled his fingers loosely around Credence's wrist and pretended not to notice the way his pulse jumped at the contact. "You don't have to leave." It wasn't quite what he meant, but it was close enough.

Credence paused. He did not reclaim his space on the cot, but he made no move to shake off Graves's grip on his wrist. "I thought you hated me. After. Because I showed you I was a monster." Though Credence didn't face Graves, his emotions were written all over the curve of his spine and the slope of his shoulders.

"No. I could never hate you, even if I tried. I didn't—I _don't_ want to hurt you. You deserve better, and I couldn't trust myself to provide it."

"You provide plenty," Credence protested.

"But I can't guarantee your safety, Credence. Look at yourself! That was me."

Credence jerked his hand from Graves's loose grasp, and Graves had enough time to think _ah, now it's done_ before Credence whirled around to face him. Anger burned bright in his dark eyes. Perhaps it was having fed Graves so recently, or perhaps being slighted like this made his emotions burn too differently, but the obscurus didn't rise with the color to his cheeks. Credence was arresting, and he was beautiful, and Graves hoped that he might one day find it in his heart to forgive him.

"You don't get to do this," Credence said with deliberate care. His words were low and measured. "You don't get to tell me that I won't be safe with you when that's the only place I've _felt_ safe. When you're too hurt to know up from down and you still try to protect me. Even if it might kill you."

The silence that fell in the wake of Credence's statement was deafening. Graves stared at Credence's face: his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips. A thousand different objections sprang to mind then died under the heat and weight of Credence's words. The only thing that could withstand it was the ghost of Gellert Grindelwald, and that was a specter that Graves would never (could never) raise in front of this boy (his terrifying, monstrous boy). Hesitant and unsure, Graves raised a hand to brush a lock of Credence's hair away from his forehead, but he stopped just short of touching Credence's skin.

"Percival," Credence said as he leaned forward into Graves's waiting hand. "Please."

The words ignited a memory: an impression of finding his way in the dark to listen to that voice, of feeling so at peace with Credence pulled close.

Graves ran his hand through Credence's hair, curled his fingers over the sensitive skin at the nape of Credence's neck, and tugged him down. Credence made no move to resist, just closed his eyes and followed the pull until his face was inches from Graves's. Under Graves's palm, Credence's pulse pounded so hard and fast that it felt like he were a tightly strung string, freshly plucked. _Are you sure?_ Graves wanted to ask. _Do you understand what you're doing?_

But before he could give voice to the thoughts, Credence closed the last distance and claimed Graves's mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss. All of Credence's wanting was written plain in the way he leaned in and took Graves's face between his hands as if he was afraid Graves would somehow try to escape. He was unpracticed and inelegant but so earnest that Graves couldn't help but feel a stab of desire in his gut.

When Credence finally came up for air, his face was flushed and his eyes bright with satisfaction. The beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips, but Graves didn't wait for it to form before kissing Credence again.

* * *

Tina threw her arms around both of their necks as soon as they emerged from the holding cell, hand in hand (the idea of breaking physical contact held no appeal). "I was so worried," she said into Credence's shoulder. If the young man had noticed that she was crying, he neglected to say anything. Graves decided to keep similarly quiet.

"Credence tells me that I'd be dead if not for you," Graves said. "Well, more dead than normal."

This elicited a watery sniffle from Tina as she pulled away to look them both over. "I was so worried," she reiterated.

"We're okay, Miss Goldstein," Credence said.

"Oh, you spend a few hours in the room with _him_ —" she cocked her head in Graves's direction then dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, "—and it's back to 'Miss Goldstein?'"

"You're technically off-duty, so you're 'Tina' as far as I'm concerned," Graves said, though he wasn't sure himself whom he was teasing.

"She said she was acting Director of Magical Law Enforcement," Credence whispered though not so low as to exclude Tina from the aside. "I thought it'd be better to be formal."

Graves arched an eyebrow. Tina flushed and found something interesting to study on her shoes. "That worked?"

Tina gestured helplessly in the direction of Credence, which was answer enough. Graves revised his estimation of her ability to do undercover work. "Good job, Goldstein. Consider yourself relieved from duty, then."

Another sniffle followed by a hiccuping sort of laugh. "Thank you, sir. And now that I'm off-duty, can I just ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Can you _please_ let Credence go home now? Not that Queenie and I don't enjoy your company, Credence," Tina said, "but I know you're homesick and, well." She made another helpless gesture. "You should take care of each other."

At his side, Credence went still as if he thought he would attract something's ire if he so much as breathed. Gods. He still expected Graves to reject him. And could anyone blame him?

Graves squeezed Credence's fingers, a gentle reassurance. "I will make sure to leave the wards open so you or your sister may deliver his items whenever is most convenient," he pronounced. He didn't have to be facing Credence to know what sort of expression he must be wearing.

"Of course, Mister Graves," Tina agreed. "We should probably let Healer Baxter know you're awake so he can clear you both to leave."

He grimaced. "Baxter _would_ have to be the one on duty when I get myself blown up, wouldn't he." The mediwizard's propensity to poke and prod at Graves as if he hoped to stumble on some great new medical discovery tended to leave Graves feeling less than cheerful at the end of his visits.

"Don't make that face, sir," said Tina. "It only took him a few minutes to check over me, and I was worse off than either of you look now."

* * *

It was nearly sunset by the time Baxter finished his diagnostics and gave them both the order to "go home, rest, and for Merlin's sake don't get blown up again." A directive from a medical professional that Graves could finally agree to without reservation. He wasted no time collecting his wand and apparating away from the MACUSA building with Credence at his side.

They appeared on the front stoop of Graves's brownstone (their home). The street around them was quiet; no one was there to see them or take notice of the way that Graves steadied Credence with a protective arm around his waist. Even through the layers of Credence's clothing, his living spark hummed under Graves's palm.

With a wave of his hand, Graves opened the wards and unlocked the door. Then, he leaned close so that his lips were barely more than a hairsbreadth from Credence's ear. "Do you care to indulge an old man in his fancies, my boy?" he whispered. (Perhaps he was being foolish, but he couldn't help the quiet surge of satisfaction when Credence shivered against him.)

"You aren't old," Credence protested, but it was half-hearted. He leaned against Graves, tucking himself even tighter against Graves's side. "And aren't you supposed to indulge _me?_ I did save your life, you know. Or. Well. However that works."

"Yes, not having a pulse tends to complicate life-saving," Graves said. "In which case, do you care to indulge a mostly-dead man in his fancies?"

Credence made a huff, and it took Graves a moment to realize that it was a laugh. Gods, had things been so terrible that he'd not heard Credence laugh? Rather than let that train of thought go any further, Graves slid one arm around Credence's shoulders, then bent to slide his other behind Credence's knees.

"I've got you," he said, then scooped the boy (his boy) up into his arms. Credence yelped in surprise and threw both of his arms around Graves's neck, but his pulse remained steady.

He laughed again. "You fancy hauling me like a sack of potatoes?"

"Of course not. You're far more precious than that." Graves twitched his fingers in the direction of the door and it swung wide to allow them entry. Mindful of Credence's head and feet, Graves stepped over the threshold. "Welcome home, dear boy."

* * *

 **A/N:** That's all for now, folks! Thank you so much for reading this monstrosity. It was supposed to be just a fluff-without-plot thing, maybe 3k words, max. One novella later...


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